/ 

6. 


h. 


DOMINIE  DEAN 


'THUSIA  HURRIED  TO  THE  FOOT  OP  THE  GANGPLANK  TO 

MEET    HER   NEW    CONQUEST"  (Sec Page  n) 


DOMINIE  DEAN 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

ELLIS  PARKER  BUTLER 


NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  TORONTO 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

LONDON  AND  EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  191 7»  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  17  N.  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


To  REV.  JAMES  B.  DABE. 
My  dear  Mr.  Dare: 

That  day  when  you  came  to  my  home  and  suggested  that  I 
write  the  book  to  which  I  now  gratefully  prefix  this  brief  dedi- 
cation, I  little  imagined  how  real  David  Dean  would  become  to 
me.  I  have  just  written  the  last  page  of  his  story  and  I  feel 
less  that  he  is  a  creature  of  my  imagination  than  that  he  is 
someone  I  have  known  and  loved  all  my  life. 

It  was  because  there  are  many  such  men  as  David  Dean,  big 
of  heart  and  great  in  spirit,  that  you  suggested  the  writing 
and  helped  me  with  incident  and  inspiration.  Your  hope  was 
that  the  story  might  aid  those  who  regret  that  such  men  as 
David  Dean  can  be  neglected  and  cast  aside  after  lives  spent  in 
faithful  service,  and  who  are  working  to  prevent  such  tragedies; 
my  desire  was  to  tell  as  truthfully  as  possible  the  story  of 
one  such  man. 

While  I  have  had  a  free  hand  in  developing  the  character  of 
David  Dean,  I  most  gratefully  acknowledge  that  the  suggestion 
of  the  idea,  and  the  inspiration,  were  yours,  and  I  hope  I  have 
not  misused  them. 

Most  sincerely, 

ELLIS  PABKEB  BUTLEB. 
FLUSHING,  N.  Y. 


2021400 


CONTENTS 

I.     'THUSIA 9 

n.     MAEY  WIGGETT 21 

III.  THE  COPPERHEAD       ....  37 

IV.  ROSE  HINCH 49 

V.  CHURCH  TROUBLES     ....  66 

VI.  THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS      .  80 

VII.     MACK 96 

VIII.  THE  GREATER  GOOD    ....  110 

IX.  LUCILLE  HARDCOME     ....  123 

X.  LUCILLE  DISCOVERS  DAVID        .       .  142 

XL     STEVE  TURRILL 157 

XH.  MONEY  MATTERS         ....  180 

XIII.  A  SURPRISE 190 

XIV.  LUCILLE  HELPS 199 

XV.    LANNY 206 

XVI.    AN  INTERVIEW 217 

XVII.  LUCILLE  TO  THE  EESCUE  .       .       .  233 

XVIII.  MR.  FRAGG  WORRIES  ....  240 

XIX.    "BRIEFS" 246 

XX.    LANNY  Is  AWAY 256 

XXI.  A  FAILURE   .       .       .       .       .       .  262 

XXII.  A  TRAGEDY  ......  269 

XXIII.  SCANDAL       ......  278 

XXIV.  RESULTS        .       .       .       .       .       .  285 

XXV.  LUCILLE  LOSES    .....  290 

XXVI.  " OUR  DAVID"     .       .      ,.       .       .  297 

7 


I 

'THUSIA 

DAVID  DEAN  caught  his  first  glimpse  of 
'Thusia  Fragg  from  the  deck  of  the 
"Mary  K"  steamboat  at  the  moment  when 
— a  fledgling  minister — he  ended  his  long  voyage 
down  the  Ohio  and  up  the  Mississippi  and  was 
ready  to  step  on  Riverbank  soil  for  the  first  time. 
From  mid-river,  as  the  steamer  approached,  the 
town  had  seemed  but  a  fringe  of  buildings  at  the 
foot  of  densely  foliaged  hills  with  here  and  there 
a  house  showing  through  the  green  and  with  one 
or  two  church  spires  rising  above  the  trees.  Then 
the  warehouse  shut  off  the  view  while  the 
"Mary  K"  made  an  unsensational  landing,  bump- 
ing against  the  projecting  piles,  bells  jingling  in 
her  interior,  paddle  wheels  noisily  reversing  and 
revolving  again  and  the  mate  swearing  at  the  top 
of  his  voice.  As  the  bow  of  the  steamer  pushed 
beyond  the  warehouse,  the  sordidly  ugly  river- 
front of  the  town  came  into  view  again — mud, 
sand,  weather-beaten  frame  buildings — while  on 
the  sandy  levee  at  the  side  of  the  warehouse 
lounged  the  twenty  or  thirty  male  citizens  in  shirt 
sleeves  who  had  come  down  to  see  the  arrival  of 
the  steamer.  From  the  saloon  deck  they  watched 
the  steamer  push  her  nose  beyond  the  blank  red 
wall  of  the  warehouse.  Against  the  rail  stood  all 

9 


10  DOMINIE    DEAN 

the  boat's  passengers  and  at  David's  side  the 
friend  he  had  made  on  the  voyage  up  the  river, 
a  rough,  tobacco-chewing  itinerant  preacher,  un- 
couth enough  but  wise  in  his  day  and  generation. 

"Well,  this  is  your  Kiverbank,"  he  said. 
"Here  ye  are.  Now,  hold  on!  Don't  be  in  a 
hurry.  There's  your  reception  committee,  I'll 
warrant  ye, — them  three  with  their  coats  on. 
Don't  get  excited.  Let  'em  wait  and  worry  a 
minute  for  fear  you've  not  come.  Keep  an  even 
mind  under  all  circumstances,  as  your  motter 
says — that's  the  idee.  Let  'em  wait.  They'll 
think  all  the  better  of  ye,  brother.  Keep  an  even 
mind,  hey?  You'll  need  one  with  that  mastiff- 
jowled  old  elder  yonder.  He's  going  to  be  your 
trouble-man." 

David  put  down  the  carpetbag  he  had  taken 
up.  Of  the  three  men  warranted  to  be  his  recep- 
tion committee  he  recognized  but  one,  Lawyer 
Hoskins,  the  man  who  while  East  had  heard 
David  preach  and  had  extended  to  him  the 
church's  call.  Now  Hoskins  recognized  David 
and  raised  his  hand  in  greeting.  It  was  at  this 
moment  that  'Thusia  Fragg  issued  from  the  side 
door  of  the  warehouse,  two  girl  companions  with 
her,  and  faced  toward  the  steamboat.  In  the  gen- 
eral gray  of  the  day  she  was  like  a  splash  of  sun- 
shine and  her  companions  were  hardly  less  vivid. 
'Thusia  Fragg  was  arrayed  in  a  dress  that  echoed 
the  boldest  style  set  forth  by  "Godey's  Ladies' 
Book"  for  that  year  of  grace,  1860— a  summer 
silk  of  gray  and  gold  stripes,  flounced  and  frilled 


'THUSIA  11 

and  ruffled  and  fringed — and  on  her  head  perched 
a  hat  that  was  sauciness  incarnate.  She  was 
overdressed  by  any  rule  you  chose.  She  was  over- 
dressed for  Biverbank  and  overdressed  for  her 
father's  income  and  for  her  own  position,  but  she 
was  a  beautiful  picture  as  she  stood  leaning  on 
her  parasol,  letting  her  eyes  range  over  the  pas- 
sengers grouped  at  the  steamer's  saloon  deck 
rail. 

As  she  stood  there  David  raised  his  hand  in 
answer  to  Lawyer  Hoskins'  greeting  and  'Thusia 
Fragg,  smiling,  raised  a  black-mitted  hand  and 
waved  at  him  in  frank  flirtation.  Undoubtedly 
she  had  thought  David  had  meant  his  salutation 
for  her.  David  turned  from  the  rail,  grasped  his 
companion's  hand  in  hearty  farewell,  and,  with 
his  carpetbag  in  hand,  descended  to  the  lower 
deck,  and  'Thusia,  preening  like  a  peacock,  hur- 
ried with  her  girl  companions  to  the  foot  of  the 
gangplank  to  meet  her  new  conquest. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  'Thusia  had  flirted 
with  the  male  passengers  of  the  packets.  Few 
boats  arrived  without  one  or  more  young  dandies 
aboard,  glad  to  vary  the  monotony  of  a  long  trip 
and  ready  to  take  part  in  a  brief  flirtation  with 
any  'Thusia  and  to  stretch  their  legs  ashore  while 
the  sweating  negroes  loaded  and  unloaded  the 
cargo.  When  the  stop  was  long  enough  there  was 
usually  time  for  a  brisk  walk  to  the  main  street 
and  for  hurried  ice  cream  treats.  The  warning 
whistle  of  the  steamer  gave  ample  time  for  these 
temporary  beaux  to  reach  the  boat.  The  'Thusias 


12  DOMINIE    DEAN 

who  could  be  found  all  up  and  down  the  river  knew 
just  the  safe  distance  to  carry  their  cavaliers  in 
order  to  bring  them  back  to  the  departing  steamer 
in  the  nick  of  time,  sometimes  running  the  last 
hundred  yards  at  a  dog  trot,  the  girls  stopping 
short  with  little  cries  of  laughter  and  shrill  fare- 
wells, but  reaching  the  boat  landing  in  time  to 
wave  parasols  or  handkerchiefs. 

Most  of  these  gayly  garbed  girls  were  innocent 
enough,  although  these  steamer  flirtations  were 
evidence  that  they  were  not  sufficiently  controlled 
by  home  influences.  Such  actually  bad  girls  as 
the  town  had  did,  however,  indulge  in  these  touch- 
and-go-flirtations  often  enough  to  cause  the  sober- 
minded  to  look  askance  at  all  the  young  persons 
who  flirted  thus.  While  the  more  innocent,  like 
'Thusia,  made  use  of  these  opportunities  only  for 
their  momentary  flare  of  adventure,  and  while 
the  young  men  were  seldom  seen  again,  even  on 
the  return  trip,  the  town  quite  naturally  classed 
all  these  girls  as  "gay" — whatever  that  meant. 

As  David  stepped  on  the  gangplank  to  leave  the 
steamer  he  saw  the  three  girls,  'Thusia  a  little 
in  advance,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  plank. 
'Thusia  herself,  saucy  in  her  defiance  of  the  eyes 
she  knew  were  upon  her,  smiled  up  at  him,  her 
eyes  beaming  a  greeting,  her  feet  ready  to  fall 
into  step  with  his,  and  her  lips  ready  to  begin  a 
rapid  chattering  to  carry  the  incident  over  the 
first  awkward  moment  incase  her  " catch"  proved 
mutely  bashful.  She  put  out  her  hand,  either  in 
greeting  or  to  take  David's  arm,  but  David,  his 


'THUSIA  13 

head  held  high,  let  his  clear  gray  eyes  rest  on 
her  for  an  instant  only  and  then  glanced  beyond 
her  and  passed  by.  The  girl  colored  with  rage 
or  shame  and  drew  back  her  hand  as  if  she  had  un- 
wittingly touched  something  hot  with  unprepared 
fingers.  Her  companions  giggled. 

The  incident  was  over  in  less  time  than  is 
needed  to  tell  of  it.  Henry  Fragg,  'Thusia's 
widowed  father  and  agent  for  the  steamers,  see- 
ing the  committee  awaiting  David,  came  from  his 
office  and  walked  toward  them.  David  strode  up 
the  plank  dock  to  where  Mr.  Hoskins  was  holding 
out  a  welcoming  hand  and  was  greeted  and  in- 
troduced to  Sam  Wiggett,  Ned  Long  and  Mr. 
Fragg. 

The  greeting  of  Mr.  Hoskins  had  a  flourishing 
orational  flavor;  Sam  Wiggett — a  heavy-set  man 
— went  so  far  as  to  exceed  his  usual  gruff  grunt 
of  recognition ;  and  Ned  Long,  as  usual,  copied  as 
closely  as  possible  Sam  Wiggett 's  words  and  man- 
ner. Mr.  Fragg 's  welcome  was  hearty  and,  of  the 
four,  the  only  natural  man-to-man  greeting. 

* '  New  dominie,  hey  ?  Well,  you  '11  like  this  town 
when  you  get  to  know  it,"  he  assured  David. 
"  Plenty  of  real  folks  here;  good  town  and  good 
people.  All  right,  Mack ! "  he  broke  off  to  shout  to 
the  mate  of  the  "Mary  K";  "yes,  all  those  casks 
go  aboard.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr. 
Dean—" 

'Thusia  was  still  standing  where  David  had 
passed  her,  her  back  toward  the  town.  Usually 
saucy  enough,  she  was  ashamed  to  turn  and  face 


14  DOMINIE    DEAN 

those  clean  gray  eyes  again.    Her  father  saw  her. 

"'Thusia!"  he  called. 

She  turned  and  came. 

'"Thusia,  this  is  our  new  dominie,"  Fragg 
said,  placing  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "This  is  my 
daughter,  Mr.  Dean.  Aren't  the  women  having 
some  sort  of  welcome  hurrah  up  at  the  manse! 
Why  don't  you  go  up  there  and  take  a  hand  in  it, 
'Thusia?  Well,  Mr.  Dean,  I'll  see  you  many 
times,  I  hope." 

'Thusia,  all  her  sauciness  gone,  stood  abashed, 
and  David  tried  vainly  to  find  a  word  to  ease  the 
embarrassing  situation.  Mr.  Wiggett  relieved  it 
by  ignoring  'Thusia  utterly. 

"Fragg  will  send  your  baggage  up,"  he 
growled.  "We'll  walk.  The  women  will  be  im- 
patient ;  they've  heard  the  boat  whistle.  You  come 
with  me,  Dean,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  turned  his  back  on  'Thusia  and  led  David 
away. 

"The  less  you  have  to  do  with  that  girl  the 
better,"  were  his  first  words.  "That's  for  your 
own  good.  Hey,  Long?" 

"My  opinion,  my  opinion  exactly!"  echoed  Mr. 
Long.  "The  less  the  better.  Yes,  yes!" 

"She's  got  in  with  a  crowd  of  fast  young 
fools,"  agreed  Mr.  Hoskins.  "Crazy  after  the 
men.  Fragg  ought  to  take  her  into  the  woodshed 
and  use  a  good  stiff  shingle  on  her  about  once 
every  so  often.  He  lets  her  run  too  wild.  No 
sense  in  it!" 

What  'Thusia  needed  was  a  mother  to  see  that 


'THUSIA  15 

her  vivacity  found  a  more  conventional  outlet. 
There  was  nothing  really  wrong  with  'Thusia. 
She  was  young  and  fun-loving  and  possessed  of 
more  spirit  than  most  of  the  young  women  of  the 
town.  She  was  amazingly  efficient.  Had  she  been 
a  slower  girl  the  housework  of  her  father's  home 
would  have  kept  her  close,  but  she  had  the  knack 
of  speed.  She  sped  through  her  housework  like 
a  well-oiled  machine  and,  once  through  with  it,  she 
fled  from  the  gloomy,  motherless  place  to  find 
what  lively  companionship  she  could.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  her  reputation  had  she  been 
a  sloven,  dawdling  over  her  work  and  then  moping 
away  the  short  leisure  at  home. 

Every  small  town  has  girls  like  'Thusia  Fragg. 
You  may  see  them  arm  in  arm  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion as  the  trains  pause  for  a  few  minutes,  ready 
to  chaffer  with  any  " nice-looking"  young  fellow 
in  a  car  window.  You  see  them  strolling  past  the 
local  hotel,  two  or  three  in  a  group,  ready  to  fall 
into  step  with  any  young  drummer  who  is  willing 
to  leave  his  chair  for  a  stroll.  Some  are  bad  girls, 
some  are  on  the  verge  of  the  precipice  of  evil, 
and  some,  like  'Thusia,  are  merely  lovers  of  ex- 
citement and  not  yet  aware  of  the  real  dangers 
with  which  they  play. 

'Thusia,  running  the  streets,  was  in  danger  of 
becoming  too  daring.  She  knew  the  town  talked 
about  her  and  she  laughed  at  its  gossip.  In  such 
a  contest  the  rebel  usually  loses;  in  conspiring 
against  smugness  she  ends  by  falling  into  the 
ranks  of  immorality.  In  Eiverbank  before  the 


16  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Civil  War  the  danger  to  reputation  was  even 
greater  than  it  is  now;  morality  was  marked  by 
stricter  conventions. 

'Thusia,  despite  her  new  dress  and  hat,  did  not 
linger  downtown  after  her  meeting  with  David. 
She  took  the  teasing  of  her  two  girl  friends,  who 
made  a  great  joke  of  her  attempt  to  flirt  with  the 
new  dominie,  good-naturedly,  but  she  left  them  as 
soon  as  she  could  and  walked  home.  Her  face 
burned  with  shame  as  she  thought  of  the  surprised 
glance  David  had  given  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
gangplank  and,  as  she  entered  her  motherless 
home,  she  jerked  her  hat  from  her  head  and 
angrily  threw  it  the  length  of  the  hall.  She  stood 
a  moment,  opening  and  closing  her  fists,  like  an 
angry  animal,  and  then,  characteristically,  she 
giggled.  She  retrieved  her  hat,  put  it  on  her  head 
and  studied  herself  in  the  hall  mirror.  She  tried 
several  smiles  and  satisfied  herself  that  they  were 
charming  and  then,  unhooking  her  dress  as  she 
went,  she  mounted  the  stairs.  When  she  was  in 
her  room  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  wept. 
Her  emotions  were  in  a  chaos;  and  out  of  this 
came  gradually  the  feeling  that  all  she  cared  for 
now  was  to  have  those  cool  gray  eyes  of  David's 
look  upon  her  approvingly.  Everything  she  had 
done  in  her  life  seemed  to  have  been  deliberately 
planned  to  make  them  disapprove  of  her.  Weigh- 
ing her  handicap  calmly  but  urged  by  wounded 
pride,  or  desire,  or  love — she  did  not  know  which 
— she  set  about  her  pitiful  attempt  to  fascinate 
David  Dean. 


'THUSIA  17 

The  first  Sunday  that  David  preached  in  Kiver- 
bank  'Thusia  bedecked  herself  glowingly  and  sat 
in  a  pew  where  he  could  not  fail  to  see  her.  Since 
the  death  of  his  wife  Mr.  Fragg  had  taken  to 
churchgoing,  sitting  in  a  pew  near  the  door  so 
that  he  might  slip  out  in  case  he  heard  the  whistle 
of  an  arriving  steamboat,  but  'Thusia  chose  a  pew 
close  under  the  pulpit.  After  the  service  there 
was  the  usual  informal  hand-shaking  reception 
for  the  new  dominie  and  'Thusia  waited  until 
the  aisles  were  well  cleared.  Mr.  Wiggett,  Mr. 
Hoskins  and  one  or  two  other  elders  and  trustees 
acted  as  a  self-appointed  committee  to  introduce 
David  and,  as  if  intentionally,  they  built  a  barrier 
of  their  bodies  to  keep  'Thusia  from  him.  She 
waited,  leaning  against  the  end  of  a  pew,  but  the 
half  circle  of  black  coats  did  not  open.  As  the 
congregation  thinned  and  David  moved  toward 
the  door  his  protectors  moved  with  him.  The 
sexton  began  closing  the  windows.  The  black 
coats  herded  David  into  the  vestibule  and  out 
upon  the  broad  top  step  and  still  'Thusia  leaned 
against  the  pew,  but  her  eyes  followed  David. 

"Come,  come!  We'll  have  to  be  moving  along, 
dominie,"  growled  Mr.  Wiggett  impatiently,  as 
David  stopped  to  receive  the  congratulations 
of  one  of  the  tireless-tongued  old  ladies.  "Dinner 
at  one,  you  know." 

"Yes,  coming!"  said  David  cheerfully,  and  he 
gave  the  old  lady  a  last  shake  of  the  hand. 
"Now!"  he  said,  and  turned. 

'Thusia,  pushing  between  Mr.  Wiggett  and  Mr. 


18  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Hoskins,  came  with  her  hand  extended  and  her 
face  glowing. 

"I  waited  until  they  were  all  gone,"  she  said 
eagerly.  '  *  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  splendid  your 
sermon  was.  It  was  wonderful,  Mr.  Dean.  I'm 
coming  every  Sunday — " 

David  took  her  hand.  He  was  glowing  with  the 
kindly  greetings  and  praises  that  had  been 
showered  upon  him,  and  his  happiness  showed  in 
his  eyes.  He  would  have  beamed  on  anyone  at 
that  moment,  and  he  beamed  on  'Thusia.  He  said 
something  pleasantly  conventional  and  'Thusia 
chattered  on,  still  holding  his  hand,  although  in 
his  general  elation  he  was  hardly  aware  of  this 
and  not  at  all  aware  that  the  girl  was  clinging 
to  his  hand  so  firmly  that  he  could  not  have  drawn 
it  away  had  he  tried.  She  knew  they  made  a 
striking  picture  as  they  stood  on  the  top  step 
and  she  stood  as  close  to  him  as  she  could,  so  that 
she  had  to  look  up  and  David  had  to  look  down. 
The  departing  congregation,  looking  back  for  a 
last  satisfactory  glimpse  of  their  fine  new  dominie, 
carried  away  a  picture  of  David  holding  'Thusia 's 
hand  and  looking  down  into  her  face. 

"Come,  come!  Dinner's  waiting!"  Mr.  Wig- 
gett  growled  impatiently. 

"Well,  good-by,  Mr.  Dean,"  'Thusia  exclaimed. 
"My  dinner  is  waiting,  too,  and  you  must  not 
keep  me  forever,  you  know.  I  suppose  we'll  see 
a  great  deal  of  each  other,  anyway.  Now — will 
you  please  let  me  have  my  hand?" 

She  laughed  and  David  dropped  her  hand.    He 


'THUSIA  19 

blushed.  'Thusia  ran  down  the  steps  and  David 
turned  to  see  Mary  Wiggett  standing  in  the  vesti- 
bule door  in  an  attitude  best  described  as  in- 
sultedly  aloof.  Mr.  Wiggett 's  face  was  red. 

''Her  dinner  waiting!"  he  cried.  "She's  got 
to  go  home  and  get  it  before  it  waits.  She's  a 
forward,  street-gadding  hussy!" 

"  Father!"  exclaimed  his  daughter. 

"Well,  she  shan't  come  it  over  the  dominie," 
he  growled.  "I'll  speak  to  Fragg  about  it." 

David  walked  ahead  with  Mary  Wiggett.  He 
was  no  fool.  He  knew  well  enough  the  troubles 
a  young,  unmarried  minister  has  in  store  if  he 
happens  to  be  presentable,  and  he  knew  he  was 
not  ill-favored.  It  is  not  always — except  in  books 
— that  the  leading  pillar  of  the  church  has  a 
daughter  whose  last  chance  of  matrimony  is  the 
dominie.  Mary  Wiggett  had  by  no  means  reached 
her  last  chance.  She  was  hardly  eighteen — only 
a  year  older  than  'Thusia  Fragg — and  forty 
young  men  of  Riverbank  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  married  her.  She  was  a  little  heavier  than 
'Thusia,  both  in  mind  and  body,  and  a  little  taller, 
almost  matronly  in  her  development,  but  she  was 
a  splendid  girl  for  all  that,  and  more  than  good- 
looking  in  a  satisfying  blond  way.  David  was  so 
far  from  being  her  last  chance,  that  she  had  not 
yet  thought  of  David  as  a  possible  mate  at  all,  but 
it  was  a  fact  that  David  was  to  take  dinner  with 
the  Wiggetts  and  another  fact  that  'Thusia  was 
not  considered  a  proper  person,  and  Mary  had 
resented  having  to  stand  back  against  the  church 


20  DOMINIE   DEAN 

door  while  David  held  'Thusia's  hand.  If  Mary- 
had  one  fault  it  was  a  certain  feeling  that  a 
daughter  of  Samuel  Wiggett,  who  was  the  richest 
man  in  the  church,  was  the  equal  of  any  girl  on 
earth.  To  be  made  to  stand  back  for  'Thusia 
Fragg  was  altogether  unbearable. 

Neither  had  Mr.  Wiggett,  at  that  time,  any 
thought  of  David  as  a  husband  for  Mary.  He 
hoped  Mary  would  not  marry  for  ten  years 
more  and  that  when  she  did  she  would  marry 
someone  "with  money."  The  only  interest  the 
stubborn,  rough-grained  old  money-lover  had  in 
David  was  the  interest  of  an  upright  pillar  of  the 
church  who,  sharing  the  duty  of  choosing  a  new 
dominie,  had  delegated  his  share  to  Mr.  Hoskins 
and  was  still  fearful  lest  Mr.  Hoskins  had  made  a 
mistake.  He  was  bound  it  should  not  be  a  mis- 
take if  he  could  help  it.  Having  in  his  youth  had 
a  dozen  love  affairs  and  having  married  a  stolid, 
cow-like  woman  for  safety's  sake,  he  believed  the 
natural  fate  of  a  young  man  was  to  behave  fool- 
ishly and  he  considered  a  young  minister  more 
than  normally  unable  to  take  care  of  himself.  If 
David  incurred  censure  Mr.  Wiggett  would  be 
blamed  for  letting  Mr.  Hgskins  bring  David  to 
Eiverbank. 


n 

MARY  WIGGETT 


NEITHER  Mr.  Wiggett  nor  Mary  under- 
stood David  then.  I  doubt  if  Eiverbank 
ever  quite  understood  him.  When  he  was 
ten — a  thin-faced,  large-eyed  child,  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  an  uncushioned  pew  in  a  small,  bleak 
church,  his  hands  clasped  on  his  knees  and  his 
body  tense  as  he  hung  on  the  words  of  the  old 
dominie  in  the  pulpit  above  him — he  had  received 
the  Call.  From  that  moment  his  destiny  had  been 
fixed.  There  had  been  no  splendid  Sign — no  blaze 
of  glory-light  illuminating  the  dusky  interior  of 
the  church,  no  sun  ray  turning  his  golden  curls 
into  a  halo.  His  clasped  hands  had  tightened  a 
little;  he  had  leaned  a  little  further  forward;  a 
long  breath,  ending  in  a  deep  sigh,  had  raised  his 
thin  chest  and  David  Dean  had  given  himself  to 
his  Lord  and  Master  to  do  His  work  while  his 
life  should  last.  Never  was  a  life  more  absolutely 
consecrated. 

That  the  lad  Davy  should  hear  the  Call  was  not 
strange.  Eeligion  had  been  an  all-important  part 
of  his  parents '  lives.  The  rupture  that  wrenched 
American  Presbyterianism  into  antagonistic  parts 
in  the  year  of  David's  birth  had  been  of  more  vital 
importance  than  bread  and  meat  to  David's  father. 
21 


22  DOMINIE    DEAN 

He  never  forgave  the  seceders.  To  David's 
mother  the  rupture  had  been  a  sorrow,  as  if  she 
had  lost  a  child.  In  this  atmosphere — his  father 
was  an  elder — David  grew  and  his  faith  was  fed 
to  him  from  his  birth ;  it  was  part  of  him,  but  until 
the  Call  came  he  had  not  thought  of  being  worthy 
to  preach.  After  the  Call  came  he  thought  of 
nothing  but  making  himself  worthy. 

The  eleven  following  years  had  been  years  of 
preparation.  During  the  first  of  these  years  he 
spent  much  time  with  the  old  dominie  and  when 
he  left  school  he  came  under  the  care  of  the  pres- 
bytery of  which  the  dominie  was  a  member.  It 
was  David's  father's  pride  that  he  was  able  to 
pay  David's  way  through  the  college  and  seminary 
courses.  It  was  his  share  in  giving  Davy  to  the 
Lord. 

At  twenty-one  David  was  a  tall  youth,  slender, 
thoughtful  and  delicate.  His  hair  was  almost 
golden,  fine  and  soft,  with  a  curly  forelock.  He 
had  never  had  a  religious  doubt.  He  preached  his 
trial  sermon,  received  his  license  and  almost  im- 
mediately his  call  to  Eiverbank.  This  was  David, 
clean  and  sure,  honest  and  unafraid,  broad-browed 
and  clear-eyed,  his  favorite  motto:  "Keep  an 
even  mind  under  all  circumstances."  It  was  to 
protect  this  young  David,  clear  as  crystal  and 
strong  as  steel,  that  the  members  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church  of  Riverbank,  during  those 
first  weeks,  tacitly  conspired,  and  it  was  against 
'Thusia  Fragg,  the  fluttering,  eager  and  love- 
incited  little  butterfly,  with  a  few  of  the  golden 


MARY    WIGGETT  23 

scales  already  brushed  from  her  wings,  that  they 
sought  to  protect  him. 

To  her  own  enormous  surprise  Mary  Wiggett 
almost  immediately  fell  in  love  with  David.  She 
was  not  an  emotional  girl,  and  she  had  long  since 
decided  that  when  the  time  came  she  would  marry 
someone  from  Derlingport  or  St.  Louis.  She  had 
not  thought  of  falling  in  love  as  a  necessary  pre- 
liminary to  marriage.  In  a  vague  way  she  had 
decided  that  a  husband  from  Derlingport  or  St. 
Louis  would  be  more  desirable  because  he  would 
take  her  to  a  place  where  there  was  more  "  so- 
ciety "  and  where  certain  of  the  richer  trimmings 
of  life  were  accepted  as  reasonable  and  not 
frowned  on  as  extravagancee.  She  had  a  rather 
definite  idea  that  her  husband  would  be  someone 
in  the  pork  or  lumber  industries,  as  they  were 
then  the  best  income  producers.  She  meant  to 
refuse  all  comers  for  about  five  years,  and  then 
begin  to  consider  any  who  might  apply,  taking 
proper  stock  of  them  and  proceeding  in  a  sensible, 
orderly  manner.  A  month  after  David  came  to 
Eiverbank  she  would  have  given  every  man  in  the 
pork  and  lumber  industries  for  one  of  David's 
gentle  smiles.  She  thrilled  with  pleasure  when  he 
happened  to  touch  her  hand.  She  was  thoroughly 
in  love. 

'Thusia,  for  her  part,  pursued  David  unremit- 
tingly. She  stopped  running  the  streets,  and  tried 
to  force  her  way  into  the  activities  of  the  church 
until  she  was  so  cruelly  snubbed  and  cold- 
shouldered  that  she  wept  for  anger  and  gave  up 


24  DOMINIE   DEAN 

the  attempt.  Then  she  lay  in  wait  for  David. 
She  sailed  down  upon  him  whenever  he  went  upon 
the  streets,  seemingly  coming  upon  him  unex- 
pectedly, and  falling  into  step  with  him.  She  am- 
buscaded him  on  the  main,  street  when  he  went  to 
the  post  office  for  his  mail.  She  was  quite  open 
in  her  forced  attentions,  and,  of  course,  she  was 
talked  about.  'Thusia  did  not  care.  She  had  no 
way  of  courting  him  but  by  being  bold.  She  flut- 
tered her  wings  before  his  eyes  whenever  she 
could.  She  was  a  butterfly  teasing  to  be  caught. 
And  David!  In  spite  of  Wiggett's  warnings 
and  his  own  he  grew  fond  of  her.  You  will  have 
to  imagine  Riverbank  as  it  was  then  to  fully 
understand  David  and  'Thusia:  the  mean  little 
business  street  with  its  ugly  buildings  and  dust, 
or  mud,  ankle  deep;  the  commercial  life  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  social  life,  so  that  few  men 
thought  of  aught  beside  business;  the  fair,  shady 
streets  of  homes  with  maples  aleady  overarching 
the  streets  and  the  houses  of  white  or  brick-red, 
all  with  ample  lawns  around  them.  You  can  see 
David  leave  the  little  white  manse  beside  the  brick 
church  and  walk  the  shady  streets,  making  a 
pastoral  call  or  going  to  the  post  office.  Those 
pastoral  calls!  Serious  matters  for  a  young 
dominie  in  those  days !  The  dominie  was  expected 
to  come  like  a  plumber,  with  his  kit  of  tools,  ready 
to  set  to  work  on  a  leaky  conscience  or  a  frost-bit 
soul  and  his  visits  were  for  little  else  but  soul 
mending.  We  saved  up  our  little  leaks  for  him 
just  as  we  saved  up  our  little  ills  for  the  doctor, 


MARY   WIGGETT  25 

and  we  gave  him  his  fill.  We  felt  we  were  remiss 
if  we  did  not  have  on  hand  some  real  or  imaginary 
reason  to  make  the  dominie  kneel  beside  a  chair 
and  pray  with  us.  We  expected  our  dominie  to 
be  a  little  sad  when  he  visited  us,  a  little  gloomy 
about  things  in  general;  probably  to  give  our 
otherwise  cheerful  homes  a  churchly  gloom. 

It  was  when  David  came  from  the  main  street, 
where  the  men  could  talk  nothing  but  business, 
or  from  a  pastoral  call,  and  found  himself  young 
and  not  at  all  gloomy  at  heart  under  the  arching 
trees,  that  'Thusia  would  waylay  him*  She 
laughed  and  chattered  inconsequently  and  flirted 
with  all  her  little  might  and  joked  about  herself 
and  everyone  else  and  even  about  David — and 
who  else  dared  joke  about  the  dominie! — until 
he  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  His  flock  seemed  to 
fall  naturally  into  two  classes — those  who  felt 
they  had  a  sort  of  proprietary  interest  in  him 
and  those  who  were  a  little  afraid  of  him. 
'Thusia  was  not  like  either.  She  was  a  gleam  of 
unadulterated  youth.  David  began  to  look  for- 
ward to  their  chance  meetings  with  uneasy  but 
pleasant  anticipation.  She  was  like  a  bit  of  merry 
music  brightening  but  not  interrupting  his  work. 
He  hardly  knew  how  eagerly  he  looked  forward 
to  his  meetings  with  'Thusia  until  after  half  his 
congregation  was  talking  about  them. 

The  autumn  saw  a  great  outbreak  of  money- 
making  affairs  in  the  church.  There  was  a  mort- 
gage, of  course,  and  church  fairs  and  festivals 
and  dinners  followed  one  after  another  under 


26  DOMINIE   DEAN 

David's  eager  guidance  and  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  'Thusia  from  these.  She  fluttered  about 
David.  One  or  two  of  the  young  women  of  the 
church  finally  ventured  to  make  use  of  'Thusia, 
setting  her  to  work  as  a  waitress  at  one  of  the 
dinners  where  they  were  short-handed,  but  Mary 
Wiggett  soon  let  them  know  they  had  made  a  mis- 
take. With  a  woman's  intuition  she  felt  in 
'Thusia  a  dangerous  rival.  Even  before  'Thusia 
or  David  suspected  the  truth  she  saw  how 
great  an  attraction  'Thusia  had  for  the  young 
dominie.  Her  own  efforts  to  attract  David  were 
necessarily  slower  and  more  conventional.  There 
was  no  question  that  Mary  would  make  an  ex- 
cellent wife  for  a  minister  and  Mary  did  not  doubt 
her  ability  to  win  David  if  given  time,  but  she 
feared  some  sudden  flare-up  of  love  that  might 
blind  David  to  the  dignity  of  his  position  and 
throw  him  into  'Thusia 's  arms,  even  if  it  threw 
him  out  of  Kiverbank.  David,  she  imagined,  would 
be  fearless  in  any  loyalty. 

Had  there  been  no  'Thusia  Fragg  Mary  Wiggett 
would  have  been  well  satisfied  with  David's 
progress  toward  love.  He  liked  Mary  immensely 
and  let  her  see  it.  He  made  her  his  lieutenant 
in  all  the  money-raising  affairs  and  she  rightly 
believed  his  affection  for  her  was  growing,  but  she 
needed  time.  'Thusia,  on  the  other  hand,  would 
win  in  a  flash  or  not  at  all.  Mary  spoke  to  her 
father ;  her  mother  she  felt  could  give  her  no  aid. 
Her  mother  was  a  dull  woman. 

The  stern-faced  Wiggett  listened  to  her  grimly. 


MARY   WIGGETT  27 

He  was  not  surprised  to  hear  she  loved  David; 
he  was  surprised  that  Mary  should  come  to  him 
for  aid.  The  actual  word  "love"  was  not  men- 
tioned; we  avoid  it  in  Riverbank  except  when 
speaking  of  others. 

' '  Father,  I  like  David  well  enough  to  marry  him, 
if  he  asked  me,"  was  what  she  said. 

Further  than  this  she  told  him  nothing  but  the 
truth — that  the  respectable  members  of  the  church 
were  shocked  by  the  attention  David  was  paying 
'Thusia  and  that  they  were  talking  about  it.  It 
was  a  shame,  she  said,  that  he  should  lose  every- 
one's respect  in  that  way  when  the  only  trouble 
was  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"You  men  can't  see  it,  of  course,  father,"  she 
said.  "You  don't  understand  what  it  means,  as 
we  do.  And  we  can't  speak  to  Mr.  Dean.  I  can't 
speak  to  him." 

"I'll  tell  that  young  man  a  thing  or  two!" 
growled  Mr.  Wiggett  angrily. 

"No,  not  you,  father,"  Mary  begged,  and  when 
he  looked  at  her  with  surprise  she  blushed. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  "why  not?'? 

"I — listen,  father!  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  he 
thought  I  had  sent  you.  I  should  die  of  shame. 
If  you  went  to  him,  he  might  guess." 

"Well,  you  want  to  marry  him,  don't  you?" 

"If  he  wants  me.  But — yes,  I  do  like  him, 
father." 

"Well,  you  won't  be  a  starved  parson's  wife, 
anyway.  You  '11  have  money. ' '  It  was  equivalent 
to  another  man's  hearty  good  wishes.  "Benedict 


28  DOMINIE    DEAN 

will  talk  to  him,"  he  said,  and  went  out  to  find 
Benedict. 

David  had  found  in  old  Doctor  Benedict  a  com- 
panion and  friend.  An  old-style  family  physician, 
the  town's  medical  man-of -all- work,  with  a  heart 
as  big  as  the  world  and  a  brain  stored  with  book- 
lore  and  native  philosophy,  the  doctor  and  David 
made  a  strange  pair  of  friends  and  loved  each 
other  the  better  for  their  differences.  Once  every 
so  often  the  doctor  had  his  "periodical,"  when  he 
drank  until  he  was  stupid.  Once  already  David, 
knowing  of  this  weakness  and  seeing  the  "period" 
approaching,  had  kept  old  Benedict  talking 
philosophy  until  midnight  and,  when  he  grew 
restless  for  brandy,  had  walked  the  streets  with 
him  until  the  older  man  tottered  for  weariness 
and  had  to  be  fairly  lifted  into  his  bed.  When, 
the  next  day,  Benedict  began  the  postponed  spree 
David  had  dragged  him  to  the  manse,  and  had 
kept  him  there  that  night,  locked  in  the  dominie 's 
own  bedroom.  Benedict  took  all  this  good- 
naturedly.  He  looked  on  his  "periodicals"  as 
something  quite  apart  from  himself.  He  did  not 
like  them,  and  he  did  not  dislike  them.  They 
came,  and  when  they  came  he  was  helpless.  They 
took  charge  of  him  and  he  could  not  prevent  them, 
and  he  refused  to  mourn  over  them  or  let  them 
spoil  his  good  nature.  The  greater  part  of  the 
year  he  was  himself,  but  when  the  "periodical" 
came  he  was  like  a  helpless  baby  tossed  by  a  pair 
of  all-powerful  arms.  He  could  not  defend  him- 
self; he  did  not  wish  to  be  carried  away,  but  it 


MARY   WIGGETT  29 

was  useless  to  contend.  If  David  wanted  to 
wrestle  with  the  thing  he  was  welcome.  In  the 
meantime  David  and  Benedict  recognized  each  in 
the  other  an  intellectual  equal  and  they  became 
fast  friends.  Old  Sam  Wiggett,  holding  the  mort- 
gages on  Benedict's  house  and  on  his  horse,  and 
on  all  that  was  his,  did  not  hesitate  to  order  him 
to  talk  to  David. 

"Davy,"  said  the  doctor  quizzically  as  he  sat 
in  an  easy-chair  in  David's  study,  "they  tell  me 
you  are  paying  too  much  attention  to  'Thusy 
Fragg." 

David  turned. 

"Arethusia  Fragg?"  he  said.  "You're  mis- 
taken, Benedict.  I'm  paying  her  no  attention." 

"It's  the  scandal  of  the  church,"  drawled 
Benedict.  "Great  commotion.  Everybody  whis- 
pering about  it.  You  walk  abroad  with  her, 
Davy;  you  laugh  with  her  at  oyster  suppers." 
He  became  serious.  "It's  being  held  against  you. 
A  dominie  has  to  walk  carefully,  Davy.  Small 
minds  are  staggered  by  small  faults — by  others' 
small  faults." 

"I  meet  her  occasionally,"  said  David.  "I 
have  seen  no  wrong  in  that." 

"That's  not  for  me  to  say,"  said  Benedict. 
' '  Others  do.  She 's  a  giddy  youngster ;  a  flyaway ; 
a  gay  young  flibbertygibbet.  I  don't  judge  her. 
I'm  telling  you  what  is  said,  Davy." 

David  sat  with  his  long  legs  crossed,  his  chin 
resting  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  on  the  spatter- 
work  motto — "Keep  an  even  mind  under  all  cir- 


30  DOMINIE   DEAN 

cumstances " — above  his  desk.  He  thought  of 
'Thusia  Fragg  and  her  attraction  and  of  his  duty 
to  himself  and  to  his  church,  considering  every- 
thing calmly.  He  had  felt  a  growing  antagonism 
without  understanding  it.  As  he  thought  he  for- 
got Benedict.  His  hand  slid  upward,  and  his 
fingers  entangled  themselves  in  his  curly  hair.  He 
sat  so  for  many  minutes. 

" Thank  you,  Benedict,"  he  said  at  length.  "I 
understand.  I  am  through  with  'Thusia ! ' ' 

"Mind  you,"  drawled  Benedict,  "I  say  nothing 
against  the  girl.  I  helped  her  into  the  world, 
Davy.  I've  helped  a  lot  of  them  into  the  world. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  help  them  through  it.  When 
I  put  them  in  their  mothers'  arms  my  work  is 
done." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  David.  "If 
her  mother  had  lived  'Thusia  might  have  been 
different.  But  does  that  concern  me,  Benedict  f ' ' 

"It  does  not,"  grinned  the  old  doctor.  "How 
long  have  you  been  calling  her  'Thusia,  Davy  I" 

"My  first  duty  is  to  my  church,"  said  David. 
"A  minister  should  be  above  reproach  in  the  eyes 
of  his  people." 

"That  hits  the  nail  on  the  head,  fair  and 
square,"  said  Benedict.  "You're  right  every 
time,  Davy.  How  long  have  you  been  calling  her 
'Thusia?" 

"I  am  not  right  every  time,  Benedict,"  said 
David,  arising  and  walking  slowly  up  and  down 
the  floor,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  "but  I 
am  right  in  this.  You  are  wrong  when  you  allow 


MARY   WIGGETT  31 

yourself,  even  for  a  day,  to  fall  into  a  state  in 
which  you  cannot  be  of  use  to  your  sick  when  they 
call  for  you,  and  I  would  be  wrong  if  I  let  any- 
thing turn  my  people  from  me,  for  they  need 
me  continually.  My  ministry  is  more  important 
than  I  am.  If  my  right  hand  offended  my  people 
I  would  cut  it  off.  I  have  been  careless,  I  have 
been  thoughtless.  I  have  not  paused  to  consider 
how  my  harmless  chance  meetings  with  Miss 
Fragg  might  affect  my  work.  Benedict,  a  young 
minister's  work  is  hard  enough — with  his  youth- 
fulness  as  a  handicap — without — " 

"Without  'Thusy,"  said  Benedict. 

"Without  the  added  difficulties  that  come  to  an 
unmarried  man,"  David  substituted.  "The  sooner 
I  marry  the  better  for  me  and  for  my  work  and 
for  my  people." 

"And  the  sooner  I'll  be  chased  out  of  this  easy- 
chair  for  good  and  all  by  your  wife,"  said  Bene- 
dict, rising,  "so,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about 
it — and  I  dare  say  you  are  right — I'll  try  a  sample 
of  absence  and  go  around  and  see  how  Mrs. 
Merkle's  rheumatism  is  amusing  her.  Well, 
Davy,  invite  me  to  the  wedding!" 

This  was  late  November  and  the  ice  was  run- 
ning heavy  in  the  river  although  the  channel  was 
not  yet  frozen  over,  and  for  some  days  there  had 
been  skating  on  the  shore  ice  where  the  inward 
sweep  of  the  shore  left  a  half  moon  of  quiet  water 
above  the  levee.  When  Benedict  left  him  David 
dropped  into  his  chair.  Ten  minutes  later  his 
mind  was  made  up  and  he  drew  on  his  outer  coat, 


32  DOMINIE   DEAN 

put  on  his  hat  and  gloves  and  went  out.  He 
walked  briskly  up  the  hill  to  the  Wiggett  home, 
and  went  in.  Mary  was  not  there;  she  had  gone 
to  the  river  with  her  skates.  David  followed  her. 

No  doubt  you  know  how  the  shore  ice  behaves, 
freezing  at  night  and  softening  again  if  the  day 
is  warm ;  cracking  if  the  river  rises  or  falls ;  leav- 
ing, sometimes,  a  strip  of  honeycombed  ice  or  a 
strip  of  bare  water  along  the  shore  until  colder 
weather  congeals  it.  This  day  was  warm  and  the 
sun  had  power.  Here  and  there,  to  reach  the 
firmer  ice  across  the  mushy  shore  ice,  planks  had 
been  thrown.  David  stood  on  the  railroad  track 
that  ran  along  the  river  edge  and  looked  for  Mary 
Wiggett.  There  were  a  hundred  or  more  skaters, 
widely  scattered,  and  David  saw  Mary  Wiggett 
and  'Thusia  almost  simultaneously.  'Thusia  saw 
David. 

She  was  skating  arm  in  arm  with  some  young 
fellow,  and  as  she  saw  David  she  pulled  away 
from  her  companion.  ' '  Catch  me ! ' '  she  cried  and 
darted  away  with  her  companion  darting  after 
her.  She  was  the  most  graceful  skater  Riverbank 
boasted,  and  perhaps  her  first  idea  was  merely  to 
show  David  how  well  she  could  skate.  Suddenly, 
however,  as  if  she  had  just  seen  David,  she  waved 
her  muff  at  him  and  skated  toward  him.  The 
young  fellow  turned  in  pursuit,  but  almost  in- 
stantly shouted  a  warning  and  dug  the  edges  of 
his  skates  into  the  ice.  'Thusia  skated  on. 
Straight  toward  the  thin,  decayed  ice  she  sped, 
one  hand  still  waving  her  muff  aloft  in  signal  to 


MARY   WIGGETT  33 

David.  He  started  down  the  bank  almost  before 
she  reached  the  bad  ice,  for  he  saw  what  was 
going  to  happen.  He  heard  the  ice  give  under  her 
skates,  saw  her  throw  up  her  hands,  heard  her 
scream,  and  he  plunged  through  the  mud  and  into 
the  water.  Before  anyone  could  reach  them  he 
had  drawn  her  to  the  shore  and  'Thusia  was 
clinging  to  him,  her  arms  close  around  him.  She 
was  laughing  hysterically,  but  her  teeth  were  al- 
ready beginning  to  chatter.  Her  skates  raised  her 
nearer  David 's  face  than  ordinarily,  and  as  the 
skaters  gathered  she  put  up  her  mouth  and  kissed 
him.  Then  she  fell  limp  in  his  arms. 

She  had  not  fainted  and  David  knew  it  was  all 
mere  pretense.  He  knew  she  had  been  in  no 
danger,  for  his  legs  were  wet  only  to  the  knees, 
and  if  'Thusia  was  drenched  from  head  to  foot  it 
was  because  she  had  deliberately  thrown  herself 
into  the  water.  He  felt  it  was  all  a  trick  and  he 
shook  her  violently  as  he  tried  to  push  her  away. 

"Stop  it!"  he  cried.  "Stop  this  nonsense !" 
but  even  as  a  dozen  men  crowded  around  them 
he  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  up  the 
railway  embankment.  Below  them  Mary  Wiggett 
stood,  safely  back  from  the  dangerous  edge  of 
the  ice. 

"Get  a  rig  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  David  com- 
manded. "She's  not  hurt,  but  she'll  take  cold  in 
these  wet  clothes.  Mary  Wiggett,"  he  called,  see- 
ing her  in  the  group  on  the  ice,  "I  want  you  to 
come  with  us." 

He  carried  'Thusia  to  the  street  and  rested  her 


34  DOMINIE   DEAN 

on  a  handcar  that  stood  beside  the  railway  and 
wrapped  her  in  his  greatcoat.  The  crowd,  of 
course,  followed.  David  sent  a  boy  to  tell  Mr. 
Fragg  to  hurry  home.  And  all  this  while,  and 
while  they  were  waiting  for  the  rig  that  soon 
came,  'Thusia  continued  her  pretended  faint,  and 
David  knew  she  was  shamming.  He  lifted  her 
into  the  buggy.  It  was  then  she  opened  her  eyes 
with  a  faint  "Where  am  I?" 

"You  know  well  enough,"  David  answered  and 
turned  to  Mary  Wiggett.  "Come!  Get  in!"  he 
ordered.  "She  has  been  pretending  a  faint." 

David,  who  tried  to  keep  an  even  mind  under  all 
circumstances,  never  quite  understood  the  reason- 
ing that  led  him  to  drag  Mary  Wiggett  into  the 
affair  in  this  way.  He  felt  vaguely  that  she  was 
protection;  it  had  seemed  the  thing  he  must  do. 
He  was  angry  with  'Thusia,  so  angry  that  he  felt 
like  beating  her  and  he  was  afraid  of  himself 
because  even  while  he  hated  her  for  the  trick  she 
had  played  the  clasp  of  her  arms  had  filled  him 
with  joy.  He  was  afraid  of  'Thusia. 

Without  hesitation  or  demur  Mary  clambered 
into  the  buggy,  and  David  helped  'Thusia  in  and 
drove  the  heavy  vehicle  through  the  muddy  streets 
to  'Thusia 's  door.  He  lifted  her  out  and  carried 
her  into  the  house  and  helped  her  up  the  stairs  to 
her  room,  and  there  he  left  her  with  Mary.  From 
the  sitting  room  below  he  could  hear  Mary  moving 
about.  He  heard  her  come  down  and  put  the 
sadirons  on  the  stove  to  heat  and  heard  her  mix- 
ing some  hot  drink.  When  Mr.  Fragg  reached  the 


MARY   WIGGETT  35 

house  'Thnsia  was  tucked  between  blankets  with 
hot  irons  at  her  feet,  and  Mary  came  down  as 
David  ended  his  explanation  of  the  affair. 

"I  think  she'll  be  all  right  now,"  Mary  said. 
' '  She  has  stopped  shivering  and  is  nice  and  warm. 
We'll  stop  for  Dr.  Benedict,  Mr.  Fragg,  just  to 
make  sure." 

On  the  way  home  David  asked  Mary  to  marry 
him.  She  did  not  pretend  unwillingness.  She 
was  surprised  to  be  asked  just  then,  but  she  was 
happy  and  she  tucked  her  arm  under  his  affec- 
tionately and  David  clasped  her  hand.  He  was 
happy,  quite  happy.  They  stopped  to  send  Dr. 
Benedict  to  the  Fraggs  and  then  David  drove 
Mary  home.  She  held  his  hand  a  moment 
or  two  as  she  stood  beside  the  buggy  at  her 
gate. 

''You'll  come  up  this  evening,  David,  won't 
you?"  she  asked.  "Wait,  David,  I'll  have  our 
man  drive  you  home  and  take  this  rig  back  wher- 
ever it  came  from,"  she  added  with  a  pleasing  air 
of  new  proprietorship;  "you  must  go  straight 
home  and  change  into  something  dry.  And  be 
sure  to  come  up  this  evening." 

*  *  I  will, ' '  said  David,  and  she  turned  away.  She 
turned  back  again  immediately. 

"David,"  she  said  hesitatingly;  "about  'Thusia 
— I  feel  so  sorry  for  her.  She  has  no  mother  and 
I  think  lately  she  has  been  trying  to  be  good.  I 
feel  as  if — " 

"Yes,"  said  David,  "I  feel  that  too." 

"Well,  then,  it  will  be  all  right!"  said  Mary 


36  DOMINIE   DEAN 

happily.  "And  remember,  change  your  clothes 
as  soon  as  you  get  home,  David  Dean!" 

When  David  opened  the  door  of  the  manse  he 
stood  for  a  minute  letting  his  happiness  have  its 
own  way  with  him.  He  imagined  the  little  house 
as  it  would  be  with  Mary  in  it  as  the  mistress  and, 
in  addition  to  the  glow  of  heart  natural  to  an  ac- 
cepted lover,  he  felt  he  had  chosen  wisely.  His 
wife  would  be  a  help  and  a  refuge;  she  would  be 
peace  and  sympathy  at  the  end  of  every  weary 
day. 

Then  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  change  his  wet 
garments  as  Mary  had  wisely  ordered. 


m 

THE  COPPERHEAD 

WHEN  Sumter  was  fired  upon  David 
Dean  had  been  in  Riverbank  not  quite 
a  year,  but  he  had  passed  through 
the  first  difficult  test  of  the  young  minister, 
and  Mary  Wiggett's  smile  seemed  to  have 
driven  from  the  minds  of  his  people  the  opposi- 
tion they  had  felt  when  it  seemed  he  was,  or 
might  become,  too  fond  of  'Thusia  Fragg.  Poor 
little  'Thusia !  The  bright,  flirting,  reckless  butter- 
fly of  a  girl,  captured  soul,  mind  and  body  by  her 
first  glimpse  of  David's  cool  gray  eyes,  knew — as 
soon  as  Mary  Wiggett  announced  that  David  had 
proposed  and  had  been  accepted — that  David  was 
not  for  her.  Mary  Wiggett,  inheriting  much  of 
hard-headed  old  Samuel  Wiggett's  common  sense, 
was  not  apt  to  let  David  escape  and  David  had  no 
desire  to  escape  from  the  quite  satisfactory  posi- 
tion of  future  husband  of  Mary  Wiggett.  As  the 
months  of  the  engagement  lengthened  he  liked 
Mary  more  and  more. 

The  announcement  of  the  dominie 's  engagement 
settled  many  things.  It  settled  the  uneasiness 
that  is  bound  to  exist  while  a  young,  unmarried 
minister  is  still  free  to  make  a  choice,  and  it  set- 
tled the  fear  that  David  might  make  a  fool  of 

37 


38  DOMINIE   DEAN 

himself  over  'Thusia  Fragg.  While  his  congre- 
gation did  not  realize  what  an  attraction  'Thusia 
had  had  for  David,  they  had  feared  her  general 
effect  on  him.  With  David  engaged  to  the  leading 
elder's  daughter,  and  that  daughter  such  a  fine, 
efficient  blond  young  woman  as  Mary  was,  there 
was  peace  and  David  was  happy.  He  had  no 
trouble  in  stifling  the  feeling  for  'Thusia  that  he 
felt  had  come  dangerously  near  being  love. 

Until  Riverbank  was  thrown  into  a  rage  by  the 
news  from  Fort  Sumter  David,  with  due  regard 
for  his  motto,  "Keep  an  even  mind  under  all 
circumstances,"  had  prepared  to  settle  down  into 
a  state  of  gentle  usefulness  and  to  become  the 
affectionate  husband  of  the  town's  richest  man's 
daughter.  The  wedding  was  to  be  when  Mary 
decided  she  was  quite  ready.  She  was  in  no  great 
haste,  and  in  the  flame  of  patriotism  that  swept 
all  Iowa  with  the  first  call  for  troops  and  the  sub- 
sequent excitement  as  the  town  and  county  re- 
sponded and  the  streets  were  filled  with  volunteers 
Mary  postponed  setting  a  day.  David  and  Mary 
were  both  busy  during  those  early  war  days. 
Almost  too  soon  for  belief  lists  of  dead  and 
wounded  came  back  to  Eiverbank,  followed  by  the 
pale  cripples  and  convalescents.  Loyal  entertain- 
ments and  "sanitary  fairs"  kept  every  young 
woman  busy,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  David 
did  more  to  aid  the  cause  by  staying  at  home  than 
by  going  to  the  front.  He  was  willing  enough  to 
go,  but  all  Iowa  was  afire  and  there  were  more 
volunteers  than  could  be  accepted.  No  one  ex- 


THE    COPPERHEAD  39 

pected  the  war  to  last  over  ninety  days.  More 
said  sixty  days. 

Little  'Thusia  Fragg,  forgiven  by  Mary  and 
become  her  protegee,  was  taken  into  the  councils 
of  the  women  of  David's  church  in  all  the  loyal 
charitable  efforts.  She  was  still  the  butterfly 
'Thusia;  she  still  danced  and  appeared  in  gay 
raiment  and  giggled  and  chattered;  but  she  was  a 
forgiven  'Thusia  and  did  her  best  to  be  "good." 
Like  all  the  young  women  of  the  town  she  was 
intensely  loyal  to  the  North,  but  her  loyalty  was 
more  like  the  fiery  spirit  of  the  Southern  women 
than  the  calmer  Northern  loyalty  of  her  friends. 

As  the  lists  of  dead  grew  and  the  war,  at  the 
end  of  ninety  days,  seemed  hardly  begun,  loyalty 
and  hatred  and  bitterness  became  almost  synony- 
mous. Kiverbank,  on  the  Mississippi,  held  not 
a  few  families  of  Southern  sympathizers,  and  the 
position  of  any  who  ventured  to  doubt  the  right 
of  the  North  to  coerce  the  South  became  most 
unpleasant.  Wise  "Copperheads"  kept  low  and 
said  nothing,  but  they  were  generally  known  from 
their  antebellum  utterances,  and  they  were  looked 
upon  with  distrust  and  hatred.  The  title  "Cop- 
perhead" was  the  worst  one  man  could  give 
another  in  those  days.  As  the  war  lengthened  one 
or  two  hot  outspoken  Democrats  were  ridden  out 
of  the  town  on  rails  and  the  rest,  for  the  most 
part,  found  their  sympathies  change  naturally 
into  tacit  agreement  with  those  of  their  neighbors. 
It  was  early  in  the  second  year  of  the  war  that 
old  Merlin  Hinch  came  to  Eiverbank  County.  It 


40  DOMINIE   DEAN 

was  a  time  when  public  feeling  against  Copper- 
heads was  reaching  the  point  of  exasperation. 

Merlin  Hinch,  with  his  few  earthly  goods  and 
his  wife  and  daughter,  crossed  the  Mississippi  on 
the  ferry  in  a  weather-beaten  prairie  schooner  a 
few  weeks  before  plowing  time.  He  came  from 
the  East  but  he  volunteered  nothing  about  his 
past.  He  was  a  misshapen,  pain-racked  man, 
hard-handed  and  close-mouthed.  He  rested  one 
day  in  Riverbank,  got  from  some  real  estate  man 
information  about  the  farms  in  the  back  townships 
of  the  county,  and  drove  on.  There  were  plenty 
of  farms  to  be  had — rented  on  shares  or  bought 
with  a  mortgage — and  he  passed  on  his  way,  a 
silent,  forbidding  old  man. 

In  the  days  that  followed  he  sometimes  drove 
into  town  to  make  such  purchases  as  necessity 
required.  Sometimes  his  wife — a  faded,  work- 
worn  woman — came  with  him,  and  sometimes  his 
daughter,  but  more  often  he  came  alone. 

Old  Hinch — "Copperhead  Hinch,"  he  came  to 
be  called — was  not  beautiful.  He  seldom  wore  a 
hat,  coming  to  town  with  his  iron-gray  hair 
matted  on  his  head  and  his  iron-gray  beard 
tangled  and  tobacco-stained.  Some  long-past  acci- 
dent had  left  him  with  a  scar  above  the  left  eye- 
brow, lowering  it,  and  his  eyebrows  were  like  long, 
down-curving  gray  bristles,  so  that  his  left  eye 
looked  out  through  a  bristly  covert,  giving  him  a 
leering  scowl.  The  same  accident  had  wrenched 
his  left  shoulder  so  that  his  left  arm  seemed  to 
drag  behind  him  and  he  walked  bent  forward  with 


THE    COPPERHEAD  41 

an  ugly  sidewise  gait.  At  times  he  rested  his  left 
hand  on  his  hip.  He  looked  like  a  hard  character, 
but,  as  David  came  to  know,  he  was  neither  hard 
nor  soft  but  a  man  like  other  men.  Sun  and  rain 
and  hard  weather  seemed  to  have  turned  his 
flesh  to  leather. 

In  those  days  the  post  office  was  in  the  Wiggett 
Building,  some  sixty  feet  off  the  main  street,  and 
it  was  there  those  who  liked  to  talk  of  the  war 
met,  for  on  a  bulletin  board  just  outside  the  door 
the  lists  of  dead  and  wounded  were  posted  as  they 
arrived,  and  there  head-lined  pages  of  the  news- 
papers were  pasted.  To  the  post  office  old  Hinch 
came  on  each  trip  to  town,  stopping  there  last 
before  driving  back  to  Griggs  Township.  Old 
Hinch  issued  from  the  post  office  one  afternoon 
just  as  the  postmaster  was  pasting  the  news  of  a 
Union  victory  on  the  board,  and  some  jubilant 
reader,  dancing  and  waving  his  cap,  grasped  old 
Hinch  and  shouted  the  news  in  his  ear.  The  old 
man  uttered  an  oath  and  with  his  elbow  knocked 
his  tormentor  aside.  He  shouldered  his  way 
roughly  through  the  crowd  and  clambered  into  his 
wagon. 

"Yeh!  you  Copperhead!"  the  old  man's  tor- 
mentor shouted  after  him. 

The  crowd  turned  and  saw  the  old  man  and 
jeered  at  him.  Hinch  muttered  and  mumbled  as 
he  arranged  the  scrap  of  old  blanket  on  his  wagon 
seat.  He  gathered  up  his  reins  and,  without  look- 
ing back,  drove  down  the  street,  around  the  corner 
into  the  main  street  and  out  of  the  town.  After 


42  DOMINIE    DEAN 

that  old  Hinch  was  "that  Copperhead  from 
Griggs  Township."  Silent  and  surly  always,  he 
was  left  more  completely  alone  than  ever.  When 
he  came  to  town  the  storekeepers  paid  him  scant 
courtesy;  the  manner  in  which  they  received  him 
indicated  that  they  did  not  want  his  trade,  and 
would  be  better  satisfied  if  he  stayed  away.  The 
children  on  the  street  sometimes  shouted  at  him. 
Old  Sam  Wiggett,  Mary's  father,  was  by  that 
time  known  as  the  most  bitter  hater  of  the  South 
in  Eiverbank.  Later  there  were  some  who  said 
he  assumed  the  greater  part  of  his  virulent  fanati- 
cism to  cover  his  speculations  in  the  Union  paper 
currency  and  his  tax  sale  purchases  of  the  prop- 
erty of  dead  or  impoverished  Union  soldiers,  but 
this  was  not  so.  Heavy-bodied  and  heavy-jowled, 
he  was  also  heavy-minded.  That  which  he  was 
against  he  hated  with  all  the  bitterness  his  soul 
could  command,  and  he  was  sincere  in  his  desire 
that  every  captured  Confederate  be  hanged.  He 
considered  Lincoln  a  soft-hearted  namby-pamby 
and  would  have  had  every  Confederate  home 
burned  to  the  ground  and  the  women  and  children 
driven  into  Mexico.  In  business  he  had  the  same 
harsh  but  honest  single-mindedness.  Money  was 
something  to  get  and  any  honest  way  of  getting  it 
was  right.  There  were  but  two  or  three  men  in 
Riverbank  County  who  would  bid  in  the  property 
of  the  unfortunate  soldiers  at  tax  sale,  but  Sam 
Wiggett  had  no  scruples.  The  South,  and  not  he, 
killed  and  ruined  the  soldiers,  and  the  county, 
not  he,  forced  the  property  to  tax  sale.  He  bought 


THE    COPPERHEAD  43 

with  depreciated  currency  that  he  had  bought  at 
a  discount.  That  was  business. 

It  was  not  unnatural  that  Mary  Wiggett  should 
have  absorbed  some  share  of  this  ultraloyalism 
from  her  father.  The  women  of  Riverbai^  were 
not,  as  a  rule,  bitterly  angry.  They  were  staunch 
and  true  to  their  cause ;  they  worked  eagerly  with 
their  hands,  scraping  lint,  making  " housewives" 
and  doing  what  they  could  for  their  soldiers ;  they 
were  cheered  by  victories  and  depressed  by  de- 
feats, and  they  wept  over  their  slain  and  wounded, 
but  their  attitude  was  one  of  pity  and  love  for 
their  own  rather  than  of  hard  hatred  against  the 
South.  With  Mary  Wiggett  patriotism  was  more 
militant.  Could  she  have  arranged  it  the  lint 
she  scraped  would  never  have  been  used  to  dress 
the  wounds  of  a  captured  Confederate  soldier  boy. 
'Thusia,  even  more  intense,  hated  the  South  as  a 
personal  enemy. 

David  felt  this  without,  at  first,  taking  much 
notice  of  it.  He  was  happy  in  his  engagement  and 
he  liked  Mary  better  each  day.  There  was  a 
wholesome,  full-blooded  womanliness  in  all  she 
did  and  a  frankness  in  her  affection  that  satisfied 
him.  The  first  shock  to  his  evenly  balanced  mind 
came  one  day  when  he  was  walking  through  the 
main  street  with  her. 

The  young  dominie  was  swinging  down  the 
street  at  her  side,  his  head  high  and  his  clear 
gray  eyes  looking  straight  ahead,  when  something 
whizzed  past  his  face.  They  were  near  the  corner 
of  a  street.  Along  the  edge  of  the  walk  a  half 


44  DOMINIE    DEAN 

dozen  farm  wagons  stood  and  in  the  nearest  sat 
Mrs.  Hinch,  her  sunbonnet  thrown  back  and  her 
Paisley  shawl — her  finest  possession — over  her 
shoulders.  Old  Hinch  was  clambering  into  the 
wagon  and  had  his  best  foot  on  the  hub  of  a 
wheel.  The  missile  that  whizzed  past  David's 
face  was  an  egg.  It  struck  old  Hinch  on  the 
temple  and  broke,  scattering  the  yolk  upon  the 
waist  of  Mrs.  Hinch 's  calico  dress  and  upon  her 
shawl  and  her  face.  Some  boy  had  grasped  an 
egg  from  a  box  before  a  grocer's  window  and  had 
thrown  it.  The  lad  darted  around  the  corner  and 
old  Hinch  turned,  grasping  his  whip  and  scowl- 
ing through  his  bristly  eyebrows.  The  corner 
loafers  laughed. 

What  David  did  was  not  much.  He  drew  his 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  the 
faded  woman  in  the  wagon,  that  she  might  remove 
the  stain  of  egg.  She  wiped  her  face  and  began 
removing  the  egg  from  her  garments  and  David 
and  Mary  moved  on. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  Mary  asked.  "Don't 
you  know  them?  They're  Copperheads." 

"She  was  badly  spattered.  She  seemed  at  a 
loss  what  to  do." 

"Didn't  you  know  they  were  Copperheads?" 

"I  did  not  know.  That  would  have  made  no 
difference.  She  was  distressed." 

"Well,  please,  David,  do  not  help  any  more  dis- 
tressed Copperheads  when  I  am  with  you,"  Mary 
said.  "Everyone  in  front  of  the  store  saw  you. 
Oh!  I  wouldn't  raise  my  little  finger  to  help  a 


THE    COPPERHEAD  45 

Copperhead  if  she  was  dying!  I  hate  them! 
They  ought  to  be  egged  out  of  town,  all  of 
them." 

Some  two  weeks  later  old  Hinch  drove  up  to 
the  little  manse  and  knocked  on  David 's  door.  He 
had  the  handkerchief,  washed,  ironed  and  folded 
in  a  bit  of  white  paper,  and  a  dozen  fresh-laid 
eggs  in  a  small  basket. 

"Ma  sent  me  'round  with  these,"  old  Hinch 
said.  "Sort  of  a  *  thank  you.'  She  'minded  me 
particular  not  to  throw  the  eggs  at  you." 

There  was  almost  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  as  he 
repeated  his  wife's  little  joke.  He  would  not 
enter  the  manse  but  sidled  himself  back  to  his 
wagon  and  drove  away. 

It  was  from  'Thusia  Fragg  that  David  had  the 
next  word  of  old  Hinch.  Even  in  those  days 
David  had  acquired  a  great  taste  for  a  certain 
sugared  bun  made  by  Keller,  the  baker.  Long 
years  after  the  buns  were  still  made  by  Eiverbank 
bakers  and  known  as  "Keller  buns"  and  the  last 
sight  many  had  of  David  was  as  an  old  man  with 
a  paper  bag  in  his  hand,  trudging  up  the  hill 
to  his  home  for  a  little  feast  on  "Keller  buns." 
He  used  to  stop  and  offer  his  favorite  pastry  to 
little  children.  Sometimes  the  paper  bag  was 
quite  empty  by  the  time  he  reached  home. 

It  was  no  great  disgrace,  in  those  days,  to  carry 
parcels,  for  many  of  the  Eiverbankers  had  come 
from  St.  Louis  or  Cincinnati,  where  the  best 
housewives  went  to  market  with  basket  on  arm, 
but  David  would  have  thought  nothing  of  his 


46  DOMINIE   DEAN 

paper  parcel  of  buns  in  any  event.  The  buns 
were  at  the  baker 's  and  he  liked  them  and  wanted 
some  at  home,  so  he  went  to  the  baker's  and 
bought  them  and  carried  them  home.  He  was 
coming  out  of  Keller 's  doorway  when  'Thusia,  as 
gayly  dressed  as  ever,  hurrying  by,  saw  him  and 
stopped.  She  was  frightened  and  agitated  and 
she  grasped  David's  arm. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dean!"  she  cried.  "Can't  you  do 
something1?  They're  beating  an  old  man! 
There!"  she  almost  wept,  pointing  down  the 
street  toward  the  post  office.  David  stood  a  mo- 
ment, tense  and  breathing  deeply. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"That  Copperhead  farmer,"  said  'Thusia. 

David  forgot  the  motto  over  his  desk  in  his 
study.  He  saw  the  small  mob  massed  in  front 
of  the  post  office  and  men  running  toward  it  from 
across  the  street,  and  he  too  ran.  He  saw  the 
crowd  sway  back  and  forth  and  a  fist  raised  in 
the  air,  and  then  he  was  on  the  edge  of  the  group, 
pushing  his  way  into  it. 

"Stop  this!    Stop  this!"  he  cried. 

His  voice  had  the  ring  of  authority  and  those 
who  turned  knew  him  to  be  the  dominie.  They 
had  done  old  Hinch  no  great  harm.  A  few  blows 
had  been  struck,  but  the  old  man  had  received 
them  with  his  arm  thrown  over  his  head.  He  was 
tough  and  a  few  blows  could  not  harm  him.  He 
carried  a  stout  hickory  club,  and  as  the  crowd 
hesitated  old  Hinch  sidled  his  way  to  the  edge 
of  the  walk  and  scrambled  into  his  wagon. 


THE   COPPERHEAD  47 

Someone  laughed.  Old  Hmch  did  not  drive 
away. 

"My  letter, "  he  growled,  and  David  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  letter  that  lay  on  the  walk  and 
handed  it  to  him.  Then  Hinch  struck  his  horses 
a  blow  with  the  club  and  the  wagon  bumped  over 
the  loose  stones  and  away.  The  letter  had  been 
trampled  upon  by  dusty  feet  and  David's  coat  had 
received  a  smear  of  dust  from  the  wagon  wheel. 
He  brushed  his  hands  together,  and  someone  be- 
gan knocking  the  dust  from  the  skirt  of  his  coat. 
It  eased  the  tension.  Someone  explained. 

"We  told  the  Copperhead  to  take  off  his  hat  to 
the  flag,"  they  told  David,  "and  he  damned  the 
war.  Somebody  hit  him." 

"He  is  an  old  man,"  said  David.  "You  can 
show  your  patriotism  better  than  by  striking  ail 
old  man." 

It  was  not  a  diplomatic  thing  to  say  and  it  was 
still  less  diplomatic  for  David  to  preach,  the  next 
Sunday,  on  the  prodigal  son.  Many  shook  their 
heads  over  the  sermon,  saying  David  went  too 
far  in  asking  them  to  prepare  their  hearts  for  the 
day  when  the  war  would  be  ended  and  it  would  be 
necessary  to  take  the  South  back  into  the  brother- 
hood of  States,  and  to  look  upon  the  Confederates 
as  returning  prodigals.  Old  Wiggett  was  furi- 
ously angry.  Forty  years  were  to  elapse  before 
some  of  David's  hearers  were  ready  to  forgive 
the  South,  and  many  went  to  their  graves  unfor- 
giving. The  feeling  after  the  sermon  was  that 
David  sympathized  entirely  too  strongly  with  the 


48  DOMINIE    DEAN 

South.  Those  who  heard  his  following  sermons 
knew  David  was  still  staunchly  loyal,  but  through 
the  byways  of  the  town  the  word  passed  that 
Dominie  Dean  was  "about  as  bad  as  any  Copper- 
head in  the  county." 


IV 

EOSE  HINCH 

IT  was  during  that  week  that  Benedict,  the  medi- 
cal man-of-all-work  of  the  county,  David's 
closest  friend,  carried  David  out  to  Griggs 
Township  to  see  old  Hinch.  Doctor  Benedict  had 
his  faults,  medical  and  otherwise.  Calomel  in 
tooth-destroying  quantities  was  one  and  his  peri- 
odical sprees  were  all  the  rest.  His  list  of  pro- 
fessional calls  and  undemanded  bills  qualified  him 
for  a  saintship,  for  his  heart  was  right  and  it 
hurt  him  to  take  money  from  a  poor  man  even 
when  it  was  willingly  proffered. 

"Davy,"  he  said,  putting  his  beaver  hat  on 
David's  desk  and  sinking  into  David's  easy-chair 
with  a  yawn  (people  would  not  let  him  have  a 
good  night's  rest  once  a  week),  "one  of  my  pa- 
tients gave  you  a  dozen  eggs.  Remember  her?" 

"Yes.  The  Copperhead's  wife.  She's  not  sick, 
I  hope." 

"Malaria,  backache,  pain  in  the  joints,  head- 
ache, touch  of  sciatica.  No,  she's  well.  She  don't 
complain.  It's  her  husband,  David.  He's  in  a 
bad  way." 

"What  ails  him?"  David  asked. 

"He's  blaspheming  his  God  and  Maker,  Davy," 
said  Benedict.  "He's  blaspheming  himself  into 


50  DOMINIE   DEAN 

his  grave.  He  has  hardened  his  heart  and  he 
curses  the  God  that  made  him.  Davy,  he's  dying 
of  a  breaking  heart.  He  is  breaking  his  heart 
against  the  pillars  of  Heaven." 

David  turned  in  his  chair. 

"And  you  came  for  me?  You  were  right, 
Benedict.  You  want  me  to  go  to  him?" 

"I  want  to  take  you  to  him,"  said  Benedict. 
"Get  on  your  duds,  Davy;  the  horse  is  outside." 

It  is  a  long  drive  to  Griggs  Township  and 
Benedict  had  ample  time  to  tell  all  he  knew  of 
Hinch.  For  five  days  the  man  had  refused  to 
eat.  He  sat  in  his  chair  and  cursed  his  God  for 
bringing  the  war  upon  the  country;  sat  in  his 
chair  with  a  letter  crumpled  in  his  hand,  with  his 
eyes  glassy  hard  and  his  face  in  a  hideous  scowl. 

"I  heard  from  the  wife  of  what  you  did  the 
other  day  when  those  loafers  would  have  beaten 
the  old  man.  He  hates  all  mankind,  Davy,  but  if 
there  is  one  of  the  kind  can  soften  his  heart  you 
are  the  one.  Hates?"  The  doctor  shook  his 
head.  "No,  he  thinks  he  hates  man  and  God.  It 
is  grief,  Davy.  He's  killing  himself  with  grief." 

David  was  silent.  He  knew  Benedict  would 
continue. 

"The  day  you  mixed  up  in  his  affair  he  got  a 
letter  at  the  post  office.  It's  the  letter  he  keeps 
crushed  in  his  hand." 

"I  remember.  I  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to 
him." 

"He  read  it  before  he  came  out  of  the  post 
office,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  doctor.  He  flicked 


ROSE    HINCH  51 

his  whip  over  the  haunches  of  his  horse.  ."You 
don't  know  why  he  came  West?  He  was  burned 
out  where  he  came  from.  He  spent  his  life  and 
his  wife's  life,  too,  building  up  a  farm  and  Fate 
made  it  a  battlefield.  Raiders  took  his  stock  first, 
then  one  army,  and  after  that  the  other,  made  his 
farm  a  camp  and  between  them  they  made  it  a 
desert,  burning  his  buildings.  He  had  a  boy  of 
fourteen,  and  they  were  trying  to  keep  alive  in  the 
cellar  hole  where  the  house  had  been.  A  chance 
bullet  killed  the  lad.  I  think  the  boy  was  running 
to  the  well  for  a  pail  of  water.  It  has  made  the 
old  man  bitter,  Davy.  It  has  made  him  hate  the 
war." 

"It  might  well  make  him  hate  the  war,"  said 
David. 

"There  was  another  son,"  said  Benedict.  "I 
take  it  he  was  a  fine  lad,  from  what  the  mother 
tells  me.  He  was  nineteen.  The  letter  that  came 
the  other  day  said  the  lad  had  been  killed  in 
battle.  Yes,  the  old  man  hates  the  war.  He  does 
not  love  the  war,  Davy." 

"He  may  well  hate  it,"  said  David. 

They  found  old  Hinch  as  Benedict  had  left  him, 
bent  down  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  set  in  a  hard 
glare.  He  was  very  weak — much  weaker  than 
when  Dr.  Benedict  had  left  him — but  his  lips  still 
moved  in  ceaseless  blasphemy.  The  wife  let 
David  and  the  doctor  in.  No  doubt  she  felt  the 
loss  of  her  son  as  deeply  as  old  Hinch  himself 
felt  it,  but  Fate  had  taken  vigor  out  of  her  soul 
before  this  blow  fell.  Her  nervous  hands  clasped 


52  DOMINIE    DEAN 

and  unclasped,  and  she  looked  at  Benedict  with 
the  pitiful  pleading  of  a  dumb  animal.  When  the 
two  men  went  up  to  Hinch  she  seated  herself  at 
the  far  side  of  the  room,  still  clasping  and  un- 
clasping her  hands.  The  tragedy  that  had  oc- 
curred seemed  lost  in  the  tragedy  that  impended. 

David  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  old  man's 
chair  and,  with  his  hand  on  old  Hinch 's  arm  and 
his  forehead  on  the  chair  arm,  prayed.  He 
prayed  aloud  and  as  he  prayed  he  tightened  his 
grasp  on  the  old  man's  arm.  It  was  more  than  a 
prayer;  it  was  a  stream  of  comfort  flowing 
straight  from  his  heart.  He  prayed  long.  The 
wife  ceased  her  nervous  clasping  and  unclasping 
of  her  hands  and  knelt  beside  her  own  chair. 
Benedict  stole  to  the  far  corner  of  the  room  and 
dropped  noiselessly  into  a  seat.  An  hour  passed 
and  still  David  prayed. 

The  room  was  poverty-stricken  in  the  extreme. 
There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor  and  no  drapery 
at  the  windows.  The  table  was  of  pine,  and  a 
squat  lamp  of  glass  stood  on  it,  the  lamp  chimney 
broken  and  patched  with  scorched  paper.  The 
afternoon  waned  and  old  Hinch  ceased  his  mut- 
tering, but  David  prayed  on.  He  was  fighting 
for  the  man's  soul  and  life.  Dusk  fell,  and  with 
a  sudden  great  sob  old  Hinch  buried  his  face 
between  his  knees.  Then  David  clasped  his  hand. 

The  wife  silently  lighted  the  lamp  and  went  to 
the  kitchen,  and,  as  if  the  light  had  been  a  signal, 
the  door  opened  and  Rose  Hinch  came  in.  She 
stood  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  her  sunbonnet 


ROSE    HINCH  53 

pushed  back,  taking  in  the  scene,  and  then  she 
came  and  stood  beside  her  father  and  put  her 
hand  on  his  head.  Then  David  looked  up  and  saw 
her. 

She  had  been  all  day  in  the  field,  doing  the  work 
her  father  had  left  undone,  and  her  shoes  were 
covered  with  loam  and  her  hands  burned  to  a 
brown-red.  Her  garments  were  rough  and 
patched,  but  her  face,  protected  by  the  sunbonnet, 
was  untouched  by  tan.  It  was  a  face  like  that 
of  a  madonna,  sweet  and  calm.  Her  hair,  parted 
in  the  middle,  had  been  drawn  back  smoothly,  but 
now  it  fell  rather  loosely  over  her  forehead,  and 
was  brown,  as  were  her  eyes.  She  let  her  hand 
rest  a  moment  on  her  father's  head,  and  then 
passed  on  into  the  kitchen. 

Benedict  left  immediately  after  the  supper,  but 
David  remained  for  the  night.  Old  Hinch  drank 
a  bowl  of  broth  and  permitted  himself  to  be  led 
to  bed.  He  was  very  weak  but  he  blasphemed  no 
more;  his  mood  was  one  of  saner  sorrow.  The 
wife  sat  with  him,  and  David,  seeing  that  Rose- 
after  a  day  of  man's  work  in  the  field — must  care 
for  the  scanty  stock,  insisted  on  aiding  her.  When 
Benedict  arrived  the  next  morning  old  Hinch  was 
much  better  physically  and  quite  himself  men- 
tally, and  David  drove  back  to  town  with  the 
doctor. 

Three  times  in  the  next  two  weeks  David  drove 
out  to  Griggs  Township  with  Benedict.  Things 
had  returned  to  their  miserable  normal  state  when 
he  made  his  last  visit,  but  when  David  arrived 


54.  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Samuel  Wiggett  was  there.  No  doubt  the  farm 
was  to  be  put  up  at  tax  sale  and  Wiggett  had  come 
out  to  see  whether  it  was  worth  bidding  in.  It 
would  have  pleased  him  to  be  able  to  put  old 
Hinch,  a  Copperhead,  off  the  place. 

Wiggett,  like  many  sober  and  respectable  men, 
had  little  respect  for  men  like  Benedict,  and  he 
was  never  any  too  well  pleased  to  see  David  in 
the  doctor's  company.  To  see  David  and  Bene- 
dict together  at  the  home  of  the  Copperhead  was 
bad  indeed,  and  to  see  the  evident  friendship  ex- 
isting between  David  and  the  Copperhead  and 
the  Copperhead's  wife  and  daughter  was  worse. 
Wiggett  climbed  into  his  buggy  after  a  gruff 
greeting  and  drove  away. 

For  several  days  after  David's  meeting  with 
Wiggett  at  the  farm  the  young  dominie  did  not 
see  Mary  Wiggett.  War  times  were  busy  times 
for  the  ministers  as  well  as  for  the  men  at  the 
front,  and  David's  pastoral  duties  seemed  to 
crowd  upon  him.  Three  of  the  "boys,"  sent  home 
to  die,  lay  in  their  beds  and  longed  for  David's 
visits.  He  tried  to  grasp  a  few  minutes  to  see 
Mary,  but  it  was  often  long  past  midnight  when 
he  fell  exhausted  on  his  bed. 

Gossip,  once  started  in  a  small  town,  does  not 
travel — it  leaps,  growing  with  each  leap.  It 
builds  itself  up  like  conglomerate,  that  mass  of 
pebbles  of  every  sort,  shells  and  mud.  In  no  two 
heads  did  the  stories  that  were  told  about  David 
during  those  days  agree.  The  tales  were  a  con- 
glomerate of  unpleasant  lies  in  which  disloyalty, 


ROSE   HINCH  55 

infatuation  for  the  Copperhead's  daughter,  hy- 
pocrisy, unhallowed  love  and  much  else  were  il- 
logically  combined.  Of  all  this  David  suspected 
nothing.  What  Mary  Wiggett  heard  can  only  be 
guessed,  but  it  set  her  burning  with  jealousy  of 
Eose  Hinch  and  weeping  with  hurt  pride. 

It  was  not  a  week  after  his  last  visit  to  the 
Hinches  that  Sam  Wiggett 's  man-of -all- work 
stopped  at  the  manse,  leaving  a  small  parcel  and 
a  note  for  David.  The  parcel  held  the  cheap  little 
ring  David  had  given  Mary  as  a  token  of  their 
engagement  and  the  letter  broke  their  engage- 
ment. 

David  was  horrified.  Again  and  again  he  read 
the  letter,  seeking  to  find  in  it  some  clew  to  Mary's 
act,  but  in  vain.  He  hastened  to  her  home,  but 
she  would  not  see  him.  He  wrote,  and  she  re- 
plied. It  was  a  calmly  sensible  letter,  but  it  left 
him  more  bewildered  than  ever.  She  begged  him 
not  to  be  persistent,  and  said  her  mind  was  made 
up  and  she  could  never  marry  him.  She  said  he 
could  see  that  if  he  forced  his  attentions  or  even 
insisted  on  making  a  quarrel  of  what  was  not  one 
it  would  be  harder  for  both,  since  she  was  a  mem- 
ber of  his  church  and,  if  he  became  annoying,  one 
of  them  must  leave. 

Before  giving  up  all  hope  David  persuaded  Dr. 
Benedict  to  see  Mary.  The  good  doctor  returned 
somewhat  dazed. 

"She  sat  on  me,  Davy;  she  sat  on  me  hard," 
he  said.  "My  general  impression  is  that  she 
meant  to  convey  the  idea  that  what  Samuel  Wig- 


56  DOMINIE    DEAN 

gett's  daughter  chooses  to  do  is  none  of  a  drunken 
doctor's  infernal  business." 

"But  would  she  give  you  no  reason?"  asked 
David. 

"Now  as  to  that,"  said  Benedict,  "she  implied 
quite  plainly  that  if  you  don't  know  the  reason 
it  is  none  of  your  business  either.  She  knows  the 
reason  and  that's  enough  for  the  three  of  us." 

David  wrote  again,  and  finally  Mary  consented 
to  see  him  and  set  the  day  and  hour;  but,  as  if 
Fate  meant  to  make  everything  as  bad  as  possible 
for  David,  Benedict  came  that  very  afternoon  to 
carry  him  out  to  Griggs  Township  to  minister  to 
Mrs.  Hinch,  who  had  broken  down  and  was  near 
her  end.  It  was  not  strange  that  she  should  ask 
for  David,  but  the  town  found  in  the  two  or  three 
visits  he  made  the  dying  woman  additional  cause 
for  umbrage,  and  Mary,  receiving  David's  mes- 
sage telling  why  he  could  not  keep  his  appoint- 
ment, refused  to  make  another. 

Through  all  this  David  went  his  way,  head  high 
and  with  an  even  mind.  He  felt  the  change  in 
his  people  toward  him  and  he  felt  the  changed 
attitude  of  the  town  in  general,  but  until  the 
news  reached  him  through  little  'Thusia  Fragg  he 
did  not  know  there  was  talk  in  some  of  the  bar- 
rooms of  riding  him  out  of  town  on  a  rail. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  study  trying  to  work  on 
his  sermon  for  the  next  Sunday  morning,  but 
thinking  as  much  of  Mary  as  of  his  sermon,  when 
'Thusia  came  to  the  door  of  the  manse.  Mary 
Ann,  the  old  housekeeper,  admitted  her,  leaving 


ROSE    HINCH  57 

her  sitting  in  the  shaded  parlor  while  she  went  to 
call  David.  He  came  immediately,  raising  one  of 
the  window  shades  that  he  might  better  see  the 
face  of  his  visitor,  and  when  he  saw  it  was  'Thusia 
he  held  out  his  hand.  It  was  the  first  time  'Thusia 
had  been  inside  the  manse. 

"Well,  'Thusia !"  he  queried. 

She  was  greatly  agitated.  As  she  talked  she 
began  to  cry,  wringing  her  hands  as  she  poured 
out  what  she  had  heard.  David  was  in  danger; 
in  danger  of  disgrace  and  perhaps  of  bodily  harm 
or  even  worse.  From  her  father  she  had  heard 
of  the  threats;  Mr.  Fragg  had  heard  the  word 
passed  among  the  loafers  who  hung  out  among  the 
saloons  on  the  street  facing  the  river.  David  was 
to  be  ridden  out  of  town  on  a  rail ;  perhaps  tarred 
and  feathered  before  the  ride. 

David  listened  quietly.  When  'Thusia  had 
ended,  he  sat  looking  out  of  the  window,  thinking. 

He  knew  the  men  of  the  town  were  irritated. 
For  a  time  all  the  news  from  the  Union  armies  had 
been  news  of  reverses.  The  war  had  lasted  long 
and  bad  news  increased  the  irritation.  Riots  and 
lawlessness  always  occur  in  the  face  of  adverse 
reports;  news  of  a  defeat  embitters  the  non-com- 
batants and  brings  their  hatred  to  the  surface. 
At  such  a  time  the  innocent,  if  suspected,  suffered 
along  with  the  known  enemy. 

"And  they  think  I  am  a  Copperhead!"  said 
David  at  length. 

"Because  you  are  friendly  with  Mr.  Hmch," 
'Thusia  repeated.  "They  don't  know  you  as  I 


58  DOMINIE   DEAN 

do.  It  is  because  you  are  kind  to  the  Hinches 
when  no  one  else  is.  And  they  say — "  she  said, 
her  voice  falling  and  her  fingers  twisting  the 
fringe  of  her  jacket — "they  say  you  are  in  love 
with — with  the  daughter." 

"It  is  all  because  they  do  not  understand,"  said 
David,  rising.  "I  can  tell  them.  When  I  explain 
they  will  understand." 

He  had,  as  yet,  no  definite  plan.  A  letter  to  the 
editor  of  the  daily  newspaper  occurred  to  him ;  he 
might  also  make  a  plain  statement  in  the  pulpit 
before  his  next  Sunday  sermon,  setting  himself 
right  with  his  congregation.  In  the  meanwhile 
he  must  show  himself  on  the  street;  by  word  of 
mouth  he  could  explain  what  the  townspeople  did 
not  know.  He  blamed  himself  for  not  having  ex- 
plained before.  He  stood  at  the  window,  looking 
out,  and  saw  Dr.  Benedict  drive  up.  The  doctor 
came  toward  the  house. 

David  met  him  at  the  door. 

"Davy,"  the  doctor  said,  clasping  his  hand, 
"she  is  dead,"  and  David  knew  he  meant  Mrs. 
Hinch. 

"And  Hinch?" 

"  He 's  taking  it  hard,  Davy.  He  is  in  town.  He 
is  in  that  mood  of  sullen  hate  again.  He  will 
need  you — you  are  the  only  man  that  can  soften 
him,  Davy.  It  is  hard — we  left  the  girl  alone  with 
her  dead  mother.  Some  woman  is  needed  there." 

'Thusia  had  come  to  the  parlor  door. 

"Will  I  do?    Can  I  go?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  and  bless  you  for  it!"  the  doctor  ex- 


ROSE   HINCH  59 

claimed.  "Get  in  my  buggy.  You'll  come, 
David!" 

1  'Of  course!  But  Hinch — he  came  to  town! 
Why!" 

"He  had  to  get  the  coffin,  Davy." 

David  hurried  into  his  coat. 

"We  must  find  him  at  once  and  get  him  out  of 
town,"  he  said.  "They're  threatening  to  tar  and 
feather  him  if  he  shows  his  face  in  town  again. 
We  may  stop  them  if  we  are  in  time ;  please  God 
we  may  stop  them!" 

They  found  old  Hinch 's  wagon  tied  opposite 
the  post  office.  They  knew  it  by  the  coarse 
pine  coffin  that  lay  in  the  wagon  bed.  A  crowd — 
a  dozen  or  more  men — stood  before  the  bulletin 
board  watching  the  postmaster  post  a  new  bulle- 
tin and,  as  David  leaped  from  the  buggy,  the  men 
cheered,  for  the  tide  had  turned  and  the  news 
was  news  of  victory.  As  they  cheered,  old  Hinch 
came  out  of  the  post  office.  He  had  in  his  right 
hand  the  hickory  club  he  always  carried  and  in 
the  left  a  letter,  doubled  over  and  crushed  in  his 
gnarled  fingers.  He  leaned  his  weight  on  the  club. 
All  the  strength  seemed  gone  out  of  his  bent  body. 
Someone  saw  him  and  shouted  "Here's  the  Cop- 
perhead!" and  before  David  could  reach  his  side 
the  crowd  had  gathered  around  old  Hinch. 

The  old  man  stood  in  the  doorway,  under  the 
flag  that  hung  limply  from  its  pole.  His  fingers 
twitched  as  they  grasped  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
He  glared  through  his  long  eyebrows  like  an 
angry  animal. 


60  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"Kill  the  Copperhead !"  someone  shouted  and 
an  arm  shot  out  to  grasp  the  old  man. 

"Stop!"  David  cried.  He  struggled  to  fight 
his  way  to  Hinch,  but  the  old  man,  maddened  out 
of  all  reason,  raised  his  club  above  his  head.  It 
caught  in  the  edge  of  the  flag  above  his  head  and 
he  uttered  a  curse — not  at  the  flag,  not  at  his 
tormentors,  but  at  war  and  all  war  had  done  to 
him.  The  knotted  end  of  the  club  caught  the 
margin  of  the  flag  and  tore  the  weather-rotten 
fabric. 

Those  in  front  had  stepped  back  before  the 
menace  of  the  raised  club,  but  one  man  stood  his 
ground.  He  held  a  pistol  in  his  hand  and  as  the 
flag  parted  he  leveled  the  weapon  at  the  old  man's 
head  and  calmly  and  in  cold  blood  pulled  the 
trigger. 

1 '  That 's  how  we  treat  a  Copperhead ! "  he  cried, 
and  the  old  man,  a  bullet  hole  in  his  forehead,  fell 
forward  at  his  feet. 

You  will  not  find  a  word  regarding  the  murder 
in  the  Eiverbank  Eagle  of  that  period.  They 
hustled  the  murderer  out  of  town  until  it  was 
safe  for  him  to  return;  indeed,  he  was  never  in 
any  danger.  The  matter  was  hushed  up ;  but  few 
knew  old  Hinch.  It  was  an  "incident  of  the  war." 
But  David,  breaking  through  the  crowd  one  mo- 
ment too  late,  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  the 
old  man's  dead  body  and  raised  his  head  while 
Benedict  made  the  hurried  examination.  Some 
members  of  the  crowd  stole  away,  but  other  men 
came  running;  from  all  directions  and,  standing 


ROSE    HINCH  61 

beside  the  dead  man,  David  told  them  why  old 
Hinch  had  damned  the  war  and  why  he  hated 
it — not  because  he  was  a  Copperhead  but  because 
one  son  and  then  another  had  been  taken  from 
life  by  it — one  son  killed  by  a  stray  Confederate 
bullet  and  the  other  shot  while  serving  in  the 
Union  army.  He  made  no  plea  for  himself;  it 
was  enough  that  he  told  them  that  old  Hinch  was 
not  a  Copperhead  but  a  grief-maddened  father. 
As  he  ended  Benedict  handed  him  the  letter  that 
had  slipped  from  the  old  man's  hand  as  he  fell. 
It  bore  the  army  frank  and  was  from  the  colonel 
of  a  Kentucky  regiment.  There  was  only  a  few 
lines,  but  they  told  that  old  Hinch 's  oldest  son, 
the  last  of  his  three  boys,  had  fallen  bravely  in 
battle.  It  was  with  this  new  grief  in  his  mind  that 
the  old  man  had  stepped  out  to  confront  his 
tormentors. 

David  read  the  letter,  his  clear  voice  carrying 
beyond  the  edges  of  the  crowd,  and  when  he  fin- 
ished he  said,  "We  will  pray  for  one  who  died 
in  anger,"  and  on  the  step  of  the  post  office  and 
face  to  face  with  those  who  but  a  few  minutes 
before  would  have  driven  him  from  the  town  in 
disgrace,  he  prayed  the  prayer  that  made  him 
the  best-loved  man  in  Riverbank. 

Some  of  our  old  men  still  talk  of  that  prayer 
and  liken  it  to  the  address  Lincoln  made  at 
Gettysburg.  It  was  never  written  down  and  we 
can  never  know  David's  words,  but  those  who 
heard  knew  they  were  listening  to  a  real  man 


62  DOMINIE    DEAN 

speaking  to  a  real  God,  and  they  never  doubted 
David  again. 

As  David  raised  his  head  at  the  close  he  saw 
Mary  Wiggett  and  her  father  in  their  carriage 
at  the  far  edge  of  the  crowd,  that  filled  the  street. 
Mary  half  arose  and  turned  her  face  toward 
David,  but  old  Wiggett  drove  on,  and,  while  hands 
now  willing  raised  the  body  of  old  Hinch,  David 
crossed  the  street  to  where  "Thusia  Fragg  was 
waiting  for  him. 

When  old  Sam  Wiggett  drove  away  from  in 
front  of  the  post  office,  little  imagining  David  had 
just  counteracted  all  the  baseless  gossip  that  had 
threatened  him,  Mary  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm 
and  urged  him  to  turn  back,  but  cold  common 
sense  urged  him  to  drive  on.  He  did  not  want 
to  be  known  as  having  seen  any  of  the  tragedy, 
for  he  did  not  relish  having  to  enter  a  witness 
chair.  Had  he  turned  back  as  Mary  wished 
David's  whole  life  might  have  been  different,  and 
certainly  his  end  would  have  been. 

Once  safely  home  Mary  did  not  hesitate  to 
write  to  David.  Whatever  else  she  may  have  been, 
and  however  old  Sam's  wealth  had  affected  her 
mode  of  thought,  Mary  was  sincere,  and  she  now 
wrote  David  she  was  sorry  and  asked  him  to  come 
to  her.  It  was  too  late.  With  'Thusia  David 
walked  up  the  hill.  At  the  gate  of  the  manse  they 
paused.  They  had  spoken  of  nothing  but  the 
tragedy. 

"Rose  Hinch  will  be  all  alone  now,"  'Thusia 
said. 


ROSE   HINCH  63 


"Yes,"  David  said. 
"Thusia  looked  down. 


"Do  you — will  she  get  work,"  she  asked,  "or 
is  she  going  to  marry  someone." 

"I  know  she  is  not  going  to  marry,"  David 
said  promptly.  "She  knows  no  one — no  young 
men." 

"Except  you,"  'Thusia  suggested,  looking  up. 
As  she  met  David's  clear  eyes  her  face  reddened 
as  it  had  on  that  first  day  at  the  wharf.  The  hand 
that  lay  on  the  gate  trembled  visibly;  she  with- 
drew it  and  hid  it  at  her  side. 

"I  like  Rose,  but  I  am  not  a  candidate  for  her 
hand,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  said  David. 

'Thusia  suddenly  felt  infinitely  silly  and  child- 
ish. 

"I  mean — I  don't  mean — "  she  stammered. 
"I  must  not  keep  you  standing  here.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  David  said,  and  turned  away. 

He  took  a  dozen  steps  up  the  path  toward  the 
manse.  He  stopped  short  and  turned. 

"'Thusia! "he  called. 

"Yes?"  she  replied,  and  turned  back. 

David  walked  to  the  gate  and  leaned  upon  it. 

"What  is  it?"  'Thusia  asked. 

"You  asked  about  Rose  Hinch.  I  think  we 
should  try  to  do  something  for  her — " 

'Thusia 's  eyes  were  on  David's  hands.  Now 
David's  hands  and  not  'Thusia 's  were  trembling. 
She  watched  them  as  if  fascinated.  She  looked 
up  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  thrilled  her. 

' '  'Thusia,  I  know  now ! ' '  David  said.    ' '  I  love 


64  DOMINIE   DEAN 

you  and  I  have  always  loved  you  and  I  shall  love 
you  forever. " 

Her  heart  stood  still. 

"David!  but  we  had  better  wait.  We  had  bet- 
ter think  it  over,"  she  managed  to  say.  ''You 
had  better — you're  the  dominie — I — " 

"Don't  you  care  for  me?"  he  asked. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  and  David  clasped  it. 
Kisses  and  embraces  usually  help  carry  off  a 
moment  that  can  hardly  be  anything  but  awk- 
ward, but  kisses  and  embraces  are  distinctly  im- 
possible across  a  dominie's  manse  gate  in  full 
day,  with  the  Mannings  on  their  porch  across  the 
street.  'Thusia  laughed  a  mischievous  little 
laugh. 

"What?"  David  asked. 

"I'll  be  the  funniest  wife  for  a  dominie!"  she 
said.  "Oh,  David,  do  you  think  I'll  do?" 

And  so,  as  the  fairy  tales  say,  they  were  mar- 
ried. Fairy  tales  properly  end  so,  with  a  brief 
' '  and  lived  happily  ever  after, ' '  and  so  may  most 
tales  of  real  life  end,  but,  however  the  minister's 
life  may  run,  a  minister's  wife  is  apt  to  find  the 
married  years  sufficiently  interesting.  She  mar- 
ries not  only  a  husband  but  an  official  position, 
and  the  latter  is  quite  apt  to  lead  to  plentiful 
situations. 

Mary  Wiggett,  calling  David  back  too  late,  did 
not  fall  into  a  decline  or  die  for  love.  Not  until 
she  lost  David  finally  did  she  realize  how  deeply 
she  had  loved  him,  but  she  did  not  sulk  or  repine. 
She  even  served  as  a  bridesmaid  for  'Thusia,  and 


ROSE    HINCH  65 

with  'Thusia  planned  the  wedding  gown.  She 
almost  took  the  place  of  a  mother,  and  advised 
and  worked  to  make  'Thusia 's  trousseau  beauti- 
ful. She  seemed  to  wish  David's  bride  to  be  all 
she  herself  would  have  been  had  she  been  David's 
bride.  'Thusia  was  too  happy  to  think  or  care 
why  Mary  showed  such  interest,  and  David,  who 
could'  not  avoid  hearing  of  it,  was  pleased  and 
grateful. 

The  crowning  act  of  Mary's  kindness  was  ask- 
ing 'Thusia  to  call  Eose  Hinch  from  her  poverty 
to  help  with  the  plainer  sewing.  The  three  girls 
spent  many  days  together  at  the  Fraggs '  and,  al- 
though David  was  mentioned  as  seldom  as  ever 
a  bridegroom  was  mentioned,  all  three  felt  they 
were  laboring  for  him  in  making  his  bride  fine. 
Mary,  with  her  calm  efficiency,  seemed  years  older 
than  'Thusia,  and  thus  the  three  worked — and 
were  to  work  together  for  many  years — for  love 
of  David. 


V 

CHURCH  TROUBLES 

THE  leaves  of  the  maples  before  the  small 
white  manse  were  red  with  their  October 
hue,  and  the  sun  rays  were  slanting  low 
across  the  little  front  yard  at  a  late  afternoon 
angle,  when  David,  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his 
long  black  coat  thrown  open,  paused  a  few  mo- 
ments at  his  gate  to  greet  Rose  Hinch,  who  was 
approaching  from  up  the  hill. 

David  had  changed  little.  He  was  still  straight 
and  slender,  his  yellow  hair  still  curled  over  his 
broad  forehead,  and  his  gray  eyes  were  still  clear 
and  bright.  His  motto,  "Keep  an  even  mind 
under  all  circumstances,"  still  hung  above  his 
desk  in  his  study.  For  nearly  six  years,  happy 
years,  'Thusia  had  been  David's  wife. 

The  old  rivalry  between  'Thusia  and  Mary 
seemed  forgotten.  For  one  year  old  Wiggett, 
refusing  Mary's  pleadings,  had  sat  under  a  Con- 
gregational preacher,  but  the  Congregational 
Church — -being  already  supplied  with  leaders — 
offered  him  small  opportunity  to  exert  his  stub- 
born and  somewhat  surly  desire  for  dictatorship, 
and  he  returned  to  sit  under  and  glare  at  David, 
and  resumed  his  position  of  most  powerful  elder. 

During  the  first  year  of  'Thusia 's  married  life 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  67 

Mary  was  often  at  the  manse.  'Thusia  's  love  was 
still  in  the  frantically  eager  stage;  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  lived  with  one  arm  around 
David's  neck,  and  she  was  unwittingly  in  constant 
danger  of  showing  herself  all  a  dominie's  wife 
should  not  be.  Her  taste  for  bright  clothes  and 
her  carelessness  of  conventionality  threatened  a 
harsh  awakening  for  David.  During  that  danger- 
ous first  year  Mary  made  herself  almost  one  of 
the  household. 

'Thusia,  strange  to  say,  did  not  resent  it.  Mary 
kept,  then  and  always,  her  love  for  David,  as  a 
good  woman  can.  But  little  older  than  'Thusia, 
she  was  far  wiser  and  immeasurably  less  volatile 
and,  having  lost  David  as  a  lover,  she  transmuted 
her  love  into  service. 

Probably  she  never  thought  her  feelings  into  a 
conscious  formula.  At  the  most  she  realized  that 
she  was  still  very  fond  of  David  and  that  she  was 
happier  when  helping  him  than  at  any  other  time. 

'Thusia 's  gay  companions  of  the  days  before 
David's  coming  were  quita  impossible  now  that 
'Thusia  was  a  dominie 's  bride,  and  'Thusia  recog- 
nized this  and  was  grateful  for  Mary 's  companion- 
ship during  the  months  following  the  honeymoon. 
A  young  bride  craves  a  friend  of  her  own  age, 
and  Mary  was  doubly  welcome.  Her  advice  was 
always  sound,  and  'Thusia  was  quick  to  take  it. 
Mary's  friendship  also  made  the  congregation's 
acceptance  of  'Thusia  far  easier,  for  anyone  so 
promptly  taken  up  by  the  daughter  of  the  church 's 
richest  member  and  most  prominent  elder  had 


68  DOMINIE   DEAN 

her  way  well  prepared  in  advance.  Mary,  fear- 
ing perhaps  that  'Thusia  might  be  annoyed  by 
what  might  seem  unwarranted  interest  in  her  af- 
fairs, was  wise  enough  to  have  herself  elected 
head  of  the  women's  organization  that  had  the 
care  and  betterment  of  the  manse  and  its  furnish- 
ings. To  make  the  house  fit  for  a  bride  she  sug- 
gested and  carried  through  changes  and  pur- 
chases. She  opened  her  own  purse  freely,  and 
what  'Thusia  did  not  suggest  she  herself  sug- 
gested. 

"Mary  is  lovely!"  'Thusia  told  David. 

A  year  or  two  after  Mary  had  thus  made  her- 
self almost  indispensable  to  'Thusia  she  married. 

"Oh,  I  knew  it  long  ago!"  'Thusia  said  in 
answer  to  David's  expression  of  surprise  at  the 
announcement  of  the  impending  wedding.  She 
had  known  it  a  month,  which  was  just  one  day 
less  than  Mary  herself  had  known  it.  Mary's 
husband,  one  of  the  Derlings  of  Derlingport,  was 
due  to  inherit  wealth  some  day,  but  in  the  mean- 
while old  Sash-and-Door  Derling  was  glad  to  shift 
the  nattily  dressed,  inconsequential  young  loafer 
on  to  Mr.  Wiggett's  shoulders.  Wiggett  found 
him  some  sort  of  position  in  the  Riverbank  bank 
and  young  Derling  gradually  developed  into  a 
cheerful,  pattering  little  business  man,  accumu- 
lating girth  and  losing  hair.  'Thusia  rather 
cruelly  but  exactly  expressed  him  when  she  told 
Rose  Hinch  he  was  something  soft  and  blond  with 
a  gold  toothpick.  If  Mary  was  ever  dissatisfied 
with  him  she  gave  no  sign. 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  69 

Those  who  had  wondered  what  kind  of  a  minis- 
ter's wife  flighty,  flirty,  little  'Thusia  Fragg 
would  make  soon  decided  she  made  a  good  one. 
She  can  hardly  be  better  described  than  by  saying 
she  sang  at  her  work.  David's  meager  stipend 
did  not  permit  the  employment  of  a  maid,  and 
'Thusia  had  little  enough  leisure  between  meals 
for  anything  but  cheerful  singing  at  her  tasks. 
She  cooked,  swept,  baked  and  washed.  There 
were  ministers'  wives  in  Riverbank  who  were  al- 
most as  important  in  church  work  as  their  hus- 
bands, and  this  was  supposed  to  be  part  of  their 
duties.  They  were  expected  to  lead  in  all 
social  money-getting  affairs,  and,  in  general,  to 
be  not  merely  wives  but  assistant  ministers.  If 
'Thusia  had  attempted  this  there  might  have 
been,  even  with  Mary's  backing,  trouble,  for  every 
woman  in  the  church  remembered  that  only  a 
short  while  before  'Thusia  had  been  an  irrespon- 
sible, dancing,  street-gadding,  young  harum- 
scarum  of  a  girl.  Her  interference  would  have 
been  resented.  With  good  sense,  or  good  luck, 
she  left  this  quasi  assistant  ministry  to  Mary, 
who  gladly  assumed  it,  and  'Thusia  gave  all  her 
time  to  the  pleasanter  task  of  being  David's  happy 
little  wife  and  housekeeper. 

David,  at  the  manse  gate,  was  waiting  for  Eose 
Hinch.  Rose,  when  she  saw  David,  came  on  with 
a  brisker  step.  Rose  had  become  David's  prote- 
gee, the  first  and  closest  of  many  that — during  his 
long  life — gathered  about  him,  leaning  on  him  for 
help  and  sympathy.  In  return  Rose  Hinch  was 


70  DOMINIE   DEAN 

always  eager  to  help  David  in  any  way  she  conld. 
She  was  Eiverbank's  first  precursor  of  the  trained 
nurse.  David  and  old  Benedict  had  worried  about 
her  future,  until  David  suggested  that  the  old 
doctor  give  her  what  training  he  could  and  put 
her  in  charge  of  such  of  his  cases  as  needed  espe- 
cial care.  Rose  took  up  the  work  eagerly.  She 
lived  in  a  tiny  room  above  a  store  on  the  main 
street.  To  many  in  Riverbank  she  represented 
all  that  a  trained  nurse  and  a  lay  Sister  of 
Charity  might. 

"Well,  Rose,"  David  said,  "you  seem  happy. 
Is  this  fine  October  air  getting  into  your  blood 
too?" 

"I  suppose  that  helps,"  said  Rose,  "but  the 
Long  boy  is  so  far  past  the  crisis  that  I'm  not 
needed  any  longer.  I'm  so  glad  he's  getting  well; 
he  is  such  a  dear,  patient  little  fellow.  That's 
why  I'm  happy,  David.  And  you  seem  fairly 
well  content  with  the  world,  I  should  judge." 

"I  am,  Rose!"  he  answered.  "Have  you  time 
to  see  'Thusia  for  a  minute  or  two.  I  know  she 
wants  to  see  you." 

He  held  the  gate  open  and  Rose  entered.  David 
put  his  hat  on  one  of  the  gateposts  and  stood  with 
his  arms  on  the  top  of  the  gate,  "bathing  in 
beauty, "  as  he  told  'Thusia  later.  The  sun,  where 
it  touched  the  maple  leaves,  turned  them  to 
flame.  Through  a  gap  in  the  trees  he  could  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  varicolored 
foliage  on  the  Illinois  shore,  the  reds  softened 
to  purple  by  the  October  haze.  For  a  few  minutes 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  71 

he  let  himself  forget  his  sick  and  his  soul-sore 
people  and  his  duties,  and  stood  in  happy  thought- 
lessness, breathing  October. 

Rose  came  out. 

"It's  all  settled.  I'm  coming,"  she  said,  "and, 
oh,  David!  I  am  so  glad!" 

"We  are  all  glad,"  said  David. 

Thus  it  happened  that  no  wife  ever  approached 
motherhood  more  happily  than  motherless  little 
'Thusia.  With  David  and  kind  old  Doctor  Bene- 
dict and  gentle,  efficient  Rose  Hinch  at  hand,  and 
Mary  as  delighted  as  if  the  child  was  to  be  her 
own,  and  all  of  them  loving  her,  'Thusia  did  not 
give  a  moment  to  fear.  The  baby,  when  it  came, 
was  a  boy,  and  Doctor  Benedict  said  it  was  the 
finest  in  the  world,  and  immediately  nominated 
himself  the  baby's  uncle.  He  bought  the  finest 
solid  silver,  gold-lined  cup  to  be  had  in  River- 
bank  and  had  it  engraved,  "Davy,  Junior,  from 
Uncle  Benedict,"  with  the  date.  This  was  more 
than  he  did  for  Mary  Derling's  baby,  which  came 
a  month  later.  He  gave  a  silver  spoon  there, 
one  of  about  forty  that  lucky  infant  received  from 
near  and  far. 

'Thusia  was  up  and  about,  singing  as  before, 
in  due  time.  Rose  Hinch  remained  for  the  better 
part  of  a  month  and  departed  absolutely  refusing 
any  compensation.  The  winter  was  as  happy  as 
any  David  ever  knew.  Davy  Junior  was  a  strong 
and  fairly  well-behaved  baby;  'Thusia  was  in  a 
state  of  ecstatic  bliss,  and  in  the  town  all  the 
former  opposition  to  David  had  been  long  since 


72  DOMINIE   DEAN 

forgotten.  With  the  calmness  of  an  older  man 
but  with  a  young  man's  energy  he  went  up  and 
down  the  streets  of  the  town  on  his  comforting 
errands.  He  was  fitting  into  his  niche  in  the 
world  with  no  rough  edges,  all  of  them  having  been 
worn  smooth,  and  it  seemed  that  it  was  his  lot  to 
remain  for  the  rest  of  his  life  dominie  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church  of  Kiverbank,  each  year  bet- 
ter loved  and  more  helpful. 

April  and  May  passed  blissfully,  but  by  the  end 
of  June  an  unexpected  storm  had  gathered,  and 
David  did  not  know  whether  he  could  remain  in 
Eiverbank  another  month. 

Late  in  May  an  epidemic  of  diphtheria  appeared 
in  Riverbank,  several  cases  being  in  David's  Sun- 
day school  and  the  school  was  closed.  Mary,  in 
a  panic,  fled  to  Derlingport  with  her  child.  She 
remained  nearly  a  month  with  her  husband's 
parents,  but  by  that  time  Derlingport  was  as 
overrun  by  the  disease  as  Riverbank  had  been 
and  conditions  were  reported  better  at  home;  so 
she  came  back,  bringing  the  child.  She  returned 
to  find  the  church  in  the  throes  of  one  of  those 
violent  quarrels  that  come  with  all  the  violence 
and  suddenness  of  a  tropical  storm.  Her  short 
absence  threatened  to  result  in  David's  expulsion 
from  the  church. 

On  the  last  Saturday  of  June  old  Sam  Wiggett 
sat  at  the  black  mahogany  desk  in  his  office  study- 
ing the  columns  of  a  New  York  commercial  jour- 
nal— it  was  the  year  when  the  lumber  situation 
induced  him  to  let  who  wished  think  him  a  fool 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  73 

and  to  make  his  first  big  purchase  of  Wisconsin 
timberlands — when  his  daughter,  Mary  Derling, 
entered.  She  came  sweeping  into  the  office 
dressed  in  all  the  fuss  and  furbelow  of  the 
fashionable  young  matron  of  that  day,  and  with 
her  was  her  cousin,  Ellen  Hardcome.  Sam  Wig- 
gett  turned. 

"Huh!  what  are  you  down  here  for?"  he  asked. 
He  was  never  pleased  when  interrupted  at  his 
office.  " Where's  the  baby?" 

"I  left  him  with  nurse  in  the  carriage,"  said 
Mary.  " Can't  you  say  good-day  to  Ellen, 
father?" 

"How  are  you?"  said  Mr.  Wiggett  briefly. 
Mrs.  Hardcome  acknowledged  the  greeting  and 
waited  for  Mary  to  proceed. 

"Well,  father,"  said  Mary,  "this  thing  simply 
cannot  go  on  any  longer.  Something  will  have 
to  be  done.  This  quarrel  is  absolutely  breaking 
up  the  church." 

"Huh!"  growled  Mr.  Wiggett.  "What's  hap- 
pening now?" 

"David  is  going  to  preach  to-morrow,"  said 
Mary  dropping  into  a  vacant  chair  and  motion- 
ing Ellen  to  be  seated.  "After  all  the  trouble  we 
took  to  get  Dr.  Hotchkiss  to  come  from  Derling- 
port,  and  after  the  ladies  offering  to  pay  for  a 
vacation  for  David  out  of  the  fund — " 

"What!"  shouted  Wiggett,  striking  the  desk 
a  mighty  blow  with  his  fist.  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
you  women  have  no  right  to  use  that  fund  for  any 
such  nonsense?  That's  money  raised  to  pay  on 


74  DOMINIE   DEAN 

the  mortgage.  You've  no  right  to  spend  it  for 
vacations  for  your  star-gazing,  whipper-snapper 
preacher.  No!  Nor  for  anything  else!" 

"But,  father!"  Mary  insisted. 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  your  'but,  father.' 
That's  mortgage  money.  You  women  ought  to 
have  turned  it  over  to  the  bank  long  ago.  You 
have  no  right  to  keep  it.  Pay  for  a  vacation! 
You  act  like  a  lot  of  babies!" 

"Father—" 

"Pay  for  a  vacation!  Much  he  needs  a  vaca- 
tion! Strong  as  an  ox  and  healthy  as  a  bull; 
doesn't  have  anything  to  do  the  whole  year  'round 
but  potter  around  town  and  preach  a  couple  of 
sermons.  It's  you  women  get  these  notions  into 
your  preachers '  heads.  You  turn  them  into  a  lot 
of  babies." 

"Father,  will  you  let  me  say  one  word  before 
you  quite  tear  me  to  pieces  ?  A  great  many  people 
in  our  church  like  David  Dean.  It  is  all  right  to 
bark  'Woof!  woof!  Throw  him  out  neck  and 
crop!'  but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  would 
split  the  church." 

"Well,  let  it  split!    If  we  can't  have  peace — " 

"Exactly,  father!"  Mary  said  quietly.  "If  we 
cannot  have  peace  in  the  church  it  will  be  better 
for  David  Dean  to  go  elsewhere,  but  before  that 
happens — for  I  think  many  of  our  people  would 
leave  our  church  if  David  goes — shouldn't  we  do 
all  we  can  to  bring  peace?  Ellen  agrees  with 
me," 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  75 

"In  a  measure  I  do;  yes,"  said  Ellen  Hard- 
come. 

' 'Ellen  and  Mr.  Hardcome,"  Mary  continued, 
"are  willing  to  promise  to  do  nothing  immediately 
if  David  will  go  away  for  a  month  or  two.  If  we 
can  send  him  away  for  a  couple  of  months  until 
some  of  the  bitterest  feeling  dies  everything  may 
be  all  right.  We  women  will  be  glad  enough  to 
make  up  and  pay  back  anything  we  have  to  borrow 
from  the  fund.  I  think,  father,  if  you  spoke  to 
David  he  might  go." 

"Better  get  rid  of  him  now,"  Wiggett  growled. 

Ellen  Hardcome  smiled.  This  was  what  she 
wanted.  Mary  looked  at  the  heavy-faced  old  dic- 
tator. She  knew  her  father  well  enough  to  feel 
the  hopelessness  of  her  mission.  Old  Wiggett  had 
never  forgiven  David  for  marrying  'Thusia  in- 
stead of  Mary,  and  because  he  would  a  thousand 
times  have  preferred  David  to  Derling  as  a  son- 
in-law  he  hated  David  the  more. 

"It  isn't  only  that  David  would  go,  father," 
Mary  said.  "If  he  is  sent  away  we  will  lose  the 
Hodges  and  the  Martins  and  the  Ollendorfs  and 
old  Peter  Grimby.  I  don't  mind  those  old  maid 
Curlews  going,  or  people  like  the  Hansoms  or  the 
Browns,  but  you  know  what  the  Hodges  and  old 
Peter  Grimby  do  for  the  church  every  year. 
We  thought  that  if  you  could  get  David  to 
take  a  vacation,  explaining  to  him  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  to  let  everything  quiet 
down — " 

Old  Sam  Wiggett  chuckled. 


76  DOMINIE    DEAN 

"Who  thought!  Ellen  never  thought  of  that," 
he  said. 

"I  thought  of  it,"  said  Mary. 

"And  he  won't  go!"  chuckled  Wiggett.  "I 
give  him  credit — he 's  a  fighter.  You  women  have 
stirred  up  the  fight  in  him.  I  told  you  to  shut 
up  and  keep  out  of  this,  didn't  I?  Why — that 
Dean  has  more  sense  than  all  of  you.  You  must 
have  thought  he  was  a  fool,  asking  him  to  go 
on  a  vacation  while  Ellen  and  all  stayed  here  to 
stir  things  up  against  him.  He  has  brains  and 
that  wife  of  his  has  spunk — do  you  know  what 
she  told  me  when  I  met  her  on  the  street  this 
morning?" 

Mary  did  not  ask  him. 

"Told  me  I  wasn't  fit  to  clean  her  husband's 
shoes!"  said  Wiggett. 

"I  hope — "  said  Mary. 

"Well,  you  needn't,  because  I  didn't,"  said  her 
father.  "I  didn't  say  anything.  Turned  my  back 
on  her  and  walked  away." 

"And  I  suppose  you  haven't  heard  the  latest 
thing  she  has  said?"  said  Ellen  Hardcome  bit- 
terly. "She  says  I  have  no  voice,  and  that  I 
would  not  be  in  the  choir  if  my  husband  did  not 
have  charge  of  the  music." 

"Said  that,  did  she?"  chuckled  Wiggett. 

"She  said  my  upper  register  was  squeaky,  if 
you  please!" 

'Thusia  had  indeed  said 'this.  She  had  said  it 
years  before  and  to  a  certain  Miss  Carrol  who 
was  then  her  friend.  What  Miss  Carrol  had  said 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  77 

about  the  same  voice,  she  being  in  the  choir  with 
Mrs.  Hardcome,  does  not  matter.  Miss  Carrol 
had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  tell  that  to  Ellen. 
With  the  taking  of  sides  in  the  present  church 
quarrel  all  those  who  were  against  David  racked 
their  brains  to  recall  things  "Thusia  had  said  that 
could  be  used  to  set  anyone  against  the  dominie. 
There  were  plenty  of  such  harmless,  little  confi- 
dences to  recall.  'Thusia,  during  her  first  mar- 
ried years — and  for  long  after — was  still  'Thusia ; 
she  tingled  with  life  and  she  loved  companion- 
ship and  liked  to  talk  and  listen.  Every  woman 
expresses  her  harmless  opinions  to  her  friends, 
but  it  is  easy  for  the  friend,  when  she  becomes  an 
enemy  and  wishes  for  recruits,  to  use  this  con- 
traband ammunition.  It  is  a  woman's  privilege, 
it  seems.  The  women  who,  like  Eose  Hinch,  and 
certain  women  you  know,  are  accepted  by  men  on 
an  equality  of  friendship,  make  the  least  use  of 
it,  for  even  among  children  there  is  no  term  of 
opprobrium  worse  than  "tattletale."  It  was  but 
natural  for  yellow-visaged  Miss  Connerton,  for 
instance,  who  had  once  said  to  'Thusia,  " Don't 
you  get  tired  of  Mrs.  Hallmeyer's  eternal  purple 
dresses,"  and  who  had  accepted  'Thusia 's  "Yes" 
as  a  confidential  expression  of  opinion  as  between 
one  woman  and  another,  to  run  to  Mrs.  Hall- 
meyer,  when  everyone  was  against  'Thusia,  and 
say:  "And  I  suppose  you  know  what  she  said 
about  you,  Mrs.  Hallmeyer?  That  she  simply  got 
tired  to  death  of  seeing  your  eternal  purple 
dresses!" 


78  DOMINIE    DEAN 

David  was  fighting  for  his  life,  for  his  life  was 
his  work  in  Riverbank.  He  was  not  making  the 
fight  alone.  Seven  or  more  years  of  faithful 
service  had  won  him  staunch  friends  who  were 
glad  to  fight  for  him,  but  the  miserable  feature 
of  a  church  quarrel  is  that — win  or  lose — the 
minister  must  suffer.  The  two  months  of  the 
quarrel  were  the  unhappiest  of  his  life,  and  David 
made  the  fight,  not  because  he  hoped  to  remain  in 
Riverbank  after  it  was  ended,  but  because  he  felt 
it  his  duty  to  stand  by  what  he  believed  was  right, 
until  he  should  be  plainly  and  actually  told  to  go. 
The  majority  of  his  people,  he  felt,  were  with  him, 
but  that  would  make  little  difference  in  the  final 
outcome.  Although  he  tried  in  every  way  to  lessen 
the  bitterness  of  the  quarrel,  so  that  his  triumph, 
if  he  won,  might  be  the  less  offensive,  he  knew 
his  triumph  could  mean  but  one  thing.  A  body, 
nearly  half  the  church,  would  prepare  to  leave, 
and  his  supporters,  having  won,  would  suggest 
that  it  would  be  better  for  David — who  could  not 
keep  body  and  soul  together  on  what  the  remnant 
of  a  church  could  afford  to  pay  him — and  better 
for  the  church,  that  he  should  resign  and  carry 
his  triumph  elsewhere. 

Win  or  lose  David  was  likely  to  lose,  but  until 
the  final  moment  he  did  not  mean  to  back  down. 
Had  he  felt  himself  in  the  wrong  he  would  have 
acknowledged  it  at  once ;  had  he  been  in  the  right, 
and  no  one  but  himself  concerned,  he  would  have 
preached  a  farewell  sermon  and  would  have  de- 


CHURCH   TROUBLES  79 

parted.    He  remained  and  made  the  fight  because 
he  was  loyal  to  'Thusia! 

It  was,  indeed,  'Thusia  against  whom  the  fight 
was  being  made,  and  it  was  Ellen  Hardcome  to 
whom  the  whole  miserable  affair  was  due.  It  was 
all  brought  about  by  a  pair  of  black  prunella 
gaiters. 


VI 
THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS 

SETH  HARDCOME,  while  not  an  elder,  was 
one  of  the  most  prominent  men  in  the 
church,  and  if  anything  could  be  said  against 
him  it  was  that  he  was  almost  too  upright.  Men 
are  intended,  no  doubt,  to  be  more  or  less  misera- 
ble sinners,  but  Seth  Hardcome  was,  to  outward 
view,  absolutely  irreproachable.  He  was  in  the 
shoe  business  on  the  main  street.  It  is  a  nice, 
clean  business  and  does  not  call  for  much  sweat 
of  the  brow  (a  boy  can  be  hired  to  open  the  cases) 
or  necessitate  rough  clothes,  and  Seth  Hardcome 
was  always  clean,  neat  and  suave.  He  was  a 
gentleman,  polite  and  courteous.  He  sold  the  best 
shoe  he  could  give  for  the  money.  Among  other 
boots,  shoes  and  slippers  he  sold  gaiters — then 
quite  the  fashion — with  prunella  uppers  and 
elastic  gores  at  the  sides.  Most  of  the  ladies  wore 
them. 

'Thusia  needed  new  gaiters.  David 's  stipend 
was  so  small  in  those  days — it  was  never  large — 
that,  with  the  new  baby,  he  had  hard  figuring  to 
avoid  running  into  debt  and  'Thusia  did  her  share 
in  the  matter  of  economy.  She  had  worn  her 
old  gaiters  until  they  were  hardly  fit  to  wear. 
The  elastic  had  rotted  and  hung  in  warped  folds ; 

80 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       81 

the  gaiters  had  been  soled  and  resoled  and  the 
soles  were  again  in  holes ;  finally  one  of  the  gaiters 
broke  through  at  the  side  of  the  foot.  'Thusia 
could  not  go  out  of  the  house  in  such  footwear 
and  she  asked  David  to  stop  at  Hardcome 's 
for  a  new  pair.  She  wrote  the  size  on  a  slip  of 
paper. 

"The  black  prunella  gaiters,  David;  the  same 
that  I  always  get.  Mr.  Hardcome  will  know," 
she  said. 

David  bought  the  gaiters.  He  handed  Mr. 
Hardcome  the  slip  of  paper,  and  Mr.  Hardcome 
himself  went  to  the  shelves  and  selected  the 
gaiters.  He  wrapped  them  with  his  own  hands. 
This  was  a  Monday,  and  not  until  the  next  Sunday 
did  'Thusia  have  occasion  to  wear  the  gaiters. 
It  was  a  day  following  a  rain,  and  the  streets 
were  awash  with  yellow  mud.  'Thusia  came  home 
limping,  her  poor  little  toes  crimped  in  the  ends 
of  the  gaiters. 

"My  poor,  poor  feet!"  she  cried.  "David,  I 
nearly  died;  I'm  sure  you  never  preached  so  long 
in  your  life.  Oh,  I'll  be  glad  to  get  these  off!" 

She  pulled  off  one  of  the  offending  gaiters  and 
looked  at  the  sole.  The  size  stamped  on  the  sole 
was  a  size  smaller  than  'Thusia  wore.  The  next 
day  David  returned  the  gaiters  to  Mr.  Hardcome. 
Mr.  Hardcome 's  professional  smile  fled  as  David 
explained.  He  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  as  he 
opened  the  parcel  and  looked  at  the  shoes.  There 
was  yellow  clay  on  the  heels  and  a  spattering  of 
yellow  clay  on  the  prunella. 


82  DOMINIE    DEAN 

"Too  bad!"  said  Mr.  Hardcome,  still  shaking 
his  head.  "She's  worn  them." 

"Yes;  to  church,  yesterday,"  David  said. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Hardcome,  and  he  really 
was  sorry,  "I  can't  take  them  back.  My  one 
invariable  rule;  boots  or  shoes  I  sometimes  ex- 
change, but  gaiters  never !  After  they  have  been 
worn  I  cannot  exchange  gaiters." 

"But  in  this  case,"  said  David,  "when  they 
were  the  wrong  size?  You  remember  my  wife 
herself  wrote  the  size  on  a  slip.  It  doesn't  seem, 
when  it  was  not  her  error — " 

"That,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Hardcome  with  a 
sad  smile,  "we  cannot  know.  I  am  not  likely  to 
have  made  a  mistake.  Mrs.  Dean  should  have 
tried  the  shoes  before  she  wore  them." 

David  did  not  argue.  He  had  the  average 
man's  reluctance  to  exchange  goods,  particularly 
when  soiled,  and  he  bought  and  paid  for  another 
pair,  and  nothing  more  might  have  come  of  it 
had  'Thusia  not  happened  to  know  that  old  Mrs. 
Brown  wore  gaiters  a  size  smaller  than  herself. 

'Thusia  did  not  give  the  gaiters  to  Mrs.  Brown 
without  first  having  tried  to  get  Mr.  Hardcome 
to  take  them  back.  She  went  herself.  David's 
money  must  not  be  wasted  if  she  could  prevent  it, 
and  it  is  a  fact  that  when  she  left  Mr.  Hardcome 's 
store  she  left  in  something  of  a  huff.  She  cared 
nothing  whatever  for  Mr.  Hardcome 's  rules,  but 
she  was  angry  to  think  he  should  suggest  that 
she  had  written  the  wrong  size  on  the  slip  of 
paper.  Mr.  Hardcome  was  cold  and  polite;  he 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       83 

bowed  her  out  of  the  store  as  politely  as  he 
would  have  bowed  out  Mrs.  Derling  or  any  other 
lady  customer,  but  he  was  firm.  It  was  natural 
enough  that  'Thusia  should  tell  the  story  to  old 
Mrs.  Brown  when  she  gave  her  the  gaiters. 

From  Mrs.  Brown  the  story  of  the  black  pru- 
nella gaiters  circulated  from  one  lady  to  another, 
changing  form  like  a  putty  ball  batted  from  hand 
to  hand,  until  it  reached  Mrs.  Hardcome.  One, 
or  it  may  have  been  two,  Sundays  later  David, 
coming  down  from  his  pulpit,  found  Mr.  Hard- 
come — white-faced  and  nervous — waiting  for  him. 
Suspecting  nothing  David  held  out  his  hand.  Mr. 
Hardcome  ignored  it. 

' '  If  you  have  one  minute,  Mr.  Dean, ' '  he  said  in 
the  hard  voice  of  a  man  who  has  been  put  up  to 
something  by  his  wife,  "I  would  like  to  have  a 
word  with  you." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  David. 

"It  has  come  to  my  ears,"  said  Mr.  Hardcome, 
"that  your  wife  is  circulating  a  report  that  I  am 
untruthful." 

David  almost  gasped  with  astonishment.  He 
could  not  imagine  'Thusia  doing  any  such  thing. 

"I  do  not  hold  you  in  any  way  responsible  for 
what  your  wife  may  say  or  do,  Mr.  Dean,"  said 
Mr.  Hardcome  in  the  same  hard  voice.  "I  do  not 
believe  for  one  moment  that  you  have  sanctioned 
any  such  slanderous  remarks.  I  have  the  utmost 
respect  and  affection  for  you,  but  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Dean" — his  voice  shook  with  the  anger  he  tried  to 
control — "that  woman — your  wife — must  apolo- 


84  DOMINIE    DEAN 

gize!  I  will  not  have  such  reports  circulated 
about  me!  That  is  all.  I  merely  expect  you  to 
do  your  duty.  If  your  wife  will  apologize  I  will 
do  my  duty  as  a  Christian  and  say  no  more 
about  it." 

David,  standing  in  amazement,  chanced  to  look 
past  Mr.  Hardcome,  and  he  saw  many  of  his  con- 
gregation watching  him.  He  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea  of  what  Mr.  Hardcome  was  speaking,  but 
he  felt,  with  the  quick  intuition  of  a  sensitive  man, 
that  these  others  knew  and  were  keen  to  catch 
his  attitude  as  he  answered.  He  put  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Hardcome 's  arm. 

"This  must  be  some  mistake,  Hardcome,"  he 
said.  "I  have  not  a  doubt  it  can  all  be  satisfac- 
torily explained.  My  people  are  waiting  for  me 
now.  Can  you  come  to  the  house  to-night?  After 
the  sermon?  That's  good!" 

He  let  his  hand  slide  down  Mr.  Hardcome 's 
sleeve  and  stepped  forward,  extending  his  hand 
for  the  shaking  of  hands  that  always  awaited  him 
after  the  service.  Before  he  reached  the  door  his 
brow  was  troubled.  Not  a  few  seemed  to  yield 
their  hands  reluctantly ;  some  had  manifestly  hur- 
ried away  to  avoid  him.  'Thusia,  always  the 
center  of  a  smiling  group,  stood  almost  alone  in 
the  end  of  her  pew.  He  saw  Mrs.  Hardcome 
sweep  past  'Thusia  without  so  much  as  a  glance 
of  recognition. 

On  the  way  home  he  spoke  to  'Thusia.  She 
knew  at  once  that  the  trouble  must  be  something 
about  the  black  prunella  gaiters. 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       85 

"But,  David,"  she  said,  looking  full  into  Ms 
eyes,  "he  is  quite  wrong  if  he  says  I  said  anything 
about  untruthfulness.  I  have  never  said  anything 
like  that.  I  have  never  said  anything  about  him 
or  the  gaiters  except  to  old  Mrs.  Brown.  I  did 
tell  her  I  was  quite  sure  I  had  written  the  correct 
size  on  the  slip  of  paper  I  gave  you.  But  I  never, 
never  said  Mr.  Hardcome  was  untruthful!" 

"Then  it  will  be  very  easily  settled,"  said 
David.  "We  will  tell  him  that  when  he  comes 
to-night." 

Mr.  Hardcome  did  not  go  to  David's  alone. 
When  David  opened  the  door  it  was  quite  a  dele- 
gation he  faced.  Mrs.  Hardcome  was  with  her 
husband,  and  old  Sam  Wiggett,  Ned  Long  and 
James  Cruser  filed  into  the  little  parlor  behind 
them.  David  met  them  cheerfully.  He  placed 
chairs  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him.  'Thusia  sat  at  one 
side  of  the  room.  David  smiled. 

"I  have  spoken  to  my  wife,"  he  said,  "and — " 

"If  you  will  pardon  me  for  one  minute,  Mr. 
Dean,"  said  Mrs.  Hardcome,  interrupting  him. 
"I  do  not  wish  to  have  any  false  impressions.  I 
do  not  want  my  husband  blamed,  if  there  is  any 
blame.  I  want  it  understood  that  I  insisted  that 
he  ask  for  this  apology.  I  am  not  the  woman 
to  have  my  husband  called  a — called  untruthful 
without  doing  something  about  it.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  say  that  plenty  of  us  thought  you  made  a 
mistake  when  you  chose  a  wife,  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  A  man  marries  as  he  pleases. 


86  DOMINIE   DEAN 

We  don't  ask  anything  unreasonable.  If  Mrs. 
Dean  will  apologize — " 

Little  'Thusia,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  in  her 
lap,  looked  up  at  David  with  wistful  eagerness. 
David,  stern  enough  now,  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  spoken  to  my  wife,"  he  said,  "and  I 
have  her  assurance  that  she  has  never  said  any- 
thing whatever  in  the  least  reflecting  on  Mr.  Hard- 
come 's  veracity.  Neither  she  nor  I  can  say 
more." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hardcome  in  a  shocked 
tone,  glancing  at  her  husband  as  if  to  say:  "So 
she  is  lying  about  this  too!"  Mr.  Hardcome 
arose  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"We  came  in  a  most  forgiving  spirit,  Brother 
Dean,  feeling  sure,  from  what  you  told  me,  that 
an  apology  would  be  given  without  quibble.  We 
wished  to  avoid  all  anger  and  quarreling.  If 
we  begin  a  dispute  as  to  what  Mrs.  Dean  said  or 
did  not  say  we  cannot  tell  what  unpleasantness 
may  result.  I  am  taking  this  stand  not  to  protect 
myself,  but  to  protect  others  in  our  church  who 
may  be  similarly  attacked.  We  wish  Mrs.  Dean  to 
apologize." 

"Mrs.  Dean  cannot  apologize  for  what  she  has 
not  done." 

There  was  no  mistaking  David's  tone.  If  he 
was  angry  he  hid  his  anger;  he  was  stating  an 
unchangeable  fact. 

When  he  and  'Thusia  were  alone  again  she 
cried  in  his  arms ;  she  told  him  it  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  let  her  apologize — that  she  did 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       87 

not  care,  she  would  rather  apologize  a  thousand 
times  than  make  trouble  for  him — but  David  was 
firm.  Old  Sam  Wiggett,  on  the  way  home,  told 
the  Hardcomes  they  had  been  fools ;  that  they  had 
been  offered  all  they  had  a  right  to  ask.  It  was 
not,  however,  his  quarrel.  Mrs.  Hardcome  was 
the  offended  party,  and  Mrs.  Hardcome  would 
hear  of  nothing  less  than  an  apology. 

In  a  week  or  less  the  church  was  plunged  into 
all  the  mean  pettiness  of  a  church  quarrel.  The 
black  prunella  gaiters  and  the  slip  of  paper  with 
the  shoe  size  were,  while  not  forgotten,  almost 
lost  in  the  slimy  mass  of  tattle  and  chatter. 
James  Cruser  in  a  day  changed  from  a  partisan 
of  the  Hardcomes  to  a  bitter  enemy,  because  Mrs. 
MacDorty  told  Mrs.  Cruser  that  Mrs.  Hardcome 
had  said  Mr.  Cruser  was  trying  to  befriend  both 
sides  and  was  double-faced.  Ned  Long,  looming 
as  the  leader  of  the  Hardcome  faction,  told  of  a 
peculiar  mortgage  old  James  P.  Wardop  had — 
he  said — extorted  from  Widow  Wilmot,  and  Mr. 
Wardop  became  the  staunchest  supporter  of 
David,  although  he  had  always  said  David  was 
the  worst  preacher  a  man  ever  sat  under.  It  was 
— "and  she's  a  nice  one  to  stick  up  for  the  Deans 
when  everybody  knows" — and — "but  what  else 
can  you  expect  from  a  man  like  him,  who  was 
mean  enough  to" — and  so  on. 

'Thusia  wept  a  great  many  tears  when  she  was 
not  with  David.  The  quarrel  was  like  a  wasp — 
like  a  nest  of  wasps.  From  whatever  quarter  a 
stinging  bit  of  maliciousness  set  out,  and  who- 


88  DOMINIE   DEAN 

ever  it  stung  in  its  circling  course,  it  invariably 
ended  at  'Thusia's  door.  In  a  short  time  the 
affair  had  become  a  bitter  factional  quarrel. 
There  were  those  who  supported  Mr.  Hardcome 
and  those  who  supported  Mr.  Wardop,  but  the 
fight  became  a  battle  to  drive  'Thusia  out  of  Kiver- 
bank  and  the  result  threatened  to  be  the  same, 
whichever  side  finally  considered  itself  beaten. 
Many  would  leave  the  church. 

During  those  weeks  David's  face  became  thin 
and  drawn.  Even  the  actions  of  his  closest 
friend,  Dr.  Benedict,  hurt  him,  for  Benedict  re- 
fused to  remain  neutral  and  became  a  raging 
partisan  for  David.  The  old  bachelor — while  he 
never  admitted  it — adored  'Thusia  and  since  he 
had  been  dubbed  "Uncle"  he  considered  her  his 
daughter  (a  mixing  of  relationships)  and  nothing 
'Thusia  could  do  was  wrong.  He  hurt  David's 
cause  by  his  violence.  Even  'Thusia's  own  father, 
Mr.  Fragg,  was  less  partisan.  David  tried  to  act 
as  peacemaker,  but  soon  the  quarrel  seemed  to 
have  gone  beyond  any  adjustment. 

Mary  Wiggett  went  home  from  her  father's 
office  deeply  hurt  because  her  father  was  uncom- 
promisingly against  David.  Ellen  Hardcome  was 
delighted.  With  old  Sam  Wiggett  on  her  side  she 
was  sure  of  victory,  and  when  she  left  Mary  she 
set  about  planning  a  final  blow  against  David. 
She  found  her  husband  in  his  shoe  store  and  told 
him  of  the  manner  in  which  old  Wiggett  had  re- 
fused to  help  Mary.  Together  Ellen  and  her 
husband  discussed  the  best  method  of  administer- 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       89 

ing  the  coup  de  grace.  Hardcome,  being  neither 
an  elder  nor  a  trustee,  doubted  the  advisability 
of  forcing  the  matter  immediately  upon  the  at- 
tention of  either  body,  for  he  was  not  yet  sure 
enough  of  them.  The  decision  finally  reached  was 
to  ask  for  an  unofficial  meeting  at  which  the 
opposition  to  David  could  be  crystallized — a  meet- 
ing made  up  of  enough  prominent  members  of 
the  church  to  practically  overawe  any  undecided 
elders  and  trustees.  With  Sam  Wiggett  at  the 
head  of  such  a  meeting  no  one  could  doubt  the 
result.  David  would  have  to  go. 

Hardcome 's  first  step  was  to  see  Sam  Wiggett, 
for  he  desired,  above  all  else,  to  have  Wiggett  call 
the  meeting.  The  stubborn  old  man  refused. 

"  I  'm  with  you, ' '  he  said.  '  '  That  wife  of  Dean  'a 
made  all  this  trouble,  but  I  never  sold  her  a 
shoe.  You  started  this;  call  your  own  meeting." 

"You'll  attend?"  asked  Hardcome. 

"Yes." 

"And  may  we  make  you  chairman?" 

"Yes." 

"There  may  be  some  there  who  will  try  to 
talk  down  any  motion  or  resolution  we  may  want 
to  pass — " 

"You  leave  them  to  me!"  said  Wiggett. 

Of  the  proposed  meeting  Mary  knew  nothing. 
She  planned  to  run  down  to  see  David  and  'Thusia 
after  supper,  although  she  had  but  faint  hope  of 
inducing  David  to  leave  Eiverbank  for  a  "vaca- 
tion" now  that  her  father  had  refused  his  aid. 
Wiggett,  who  still  remained  the  head  of  his  house- 


90  DOMINIE   DEAN 

hold,  although  Mary  and  her  husband  were  nomi- 
nally in  control,  ate  his  supper  in  grim  silence 
and  nothing  was  said  about  David  or  the  church 
affairs.  Nor  did  Mary  run  down  to  the  manse 
after  supper  as  she  had  planned.  When  the  meal 
was  half  finished  her  nurse  called  her  away  from 
the  supper  table  to  see  her  child,  who  was  sud- 
denly feverish  and  " stopped  up."  Mary  did  not 
return,  and  Derling,  when  he  had  ended  his  meal, 
found  her  holding  the  little  one  in  her  arms. 

"George,"  she  said,  "I'm  worried  about  baby. 
I'm  afraid  he's  sick.  Touch  his  cheek;  see  how 
hot  he  is.  Go  for  Dr.  Benedict.  I 'm  frightened. " 

"Benedict?"  said  Derling.  "What  do  you 
want  that  fellow  for?  I  won't  have  him  in  the 
house.  I'll  get  Martin.  I  won't  have  Benedict, 
always  hanging  about  that  dear  dominie  of 
yours!" 

"He's  jealous!"  thought  Mary  with  a  sudden 
inward  gasp  of  surprise.  She  bent  forward  and 
brushed  the  baby's  hair  from  the  hot  forehead. 
That  Derling  could  be  jealous  of  David  Dean 
had  never  occurred  to  Mary.  Her  marriage  had 
been  so  completely  an  alliance  of  fortune  rather 
than  of  love,  and  Derling  had  seemed  so  indif- 
ferent and  lacking  in  affection,  that  she  had  never 
even  considered  that  jealousy  might  have  a 
part  in  his  nature.  Derling,  she  knew,  conducted 
plenty  of  flirtations  on  his  own  side;  some  were 
rather  notorious  affairs ;  but  Mary  was  conscious 
of  never  having  overstepped  the  lines  set  for  a 
good  wife.  She  did  not  deny  to  herself  that  she 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       91 

felt  still  a  great  affection  for  David,  and  she  felt 
that  for  David  to  leave  Riverbank  would  be  the 
greatest  sorrow  of  her  life,  but  she  had  never 
imagined  that  Derling  might  think  he  had  cause 
for  jealousy. 

Derling  was,  however,  like  many  men  who  are 
willing  to  flirt  with  other  women,  an  extremely 
jealous  man.  He  was  jealous  of  the  time  and 
attention  Mary  gave  the  dominie.  Derling  had, 
therefore,  thrown  himself  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Hardcome  adherents,  and  he  had  been  one  of 
those  who  ran  afoul  of  old  Dr.  Benedict's  keen 
tongue.  Some  of  the  advice  Benedict  had  given 
him  would  have  done  him  good  had  he  acted  on 
it,  but  it  cut  deep.  The  old  doctor  knew  human 
nature  and  how  to  make  it  squirm. 

"  Benedict  is  so  much  better  with  children, 
George,"  said  Mary,  looking  up.  "He  seems  to 
work  miracles,  sometimes." 

"If  he  came  in  this  house,  I  would  throw  him 
out,"  said  Derling.  "I  won't  have  him.  That's 
flat!" 

"Well,  get  Martin  then,  but  I  don't  have  ttfe 
faith  in  him  I  have  in  Benedict,"  Mary  said. 

Martin  came.  He  said  it  was  nothing,  that  the 
child  had  a  croupy  cold  and  he  left  a  powder 
for  the  fever  and  advised  Mary  what  to  do  in 
case  the  child  got  worse  during  the  night.  When 
he  came  the  next  day  he  said  the  boy  was  much 
better.  That  evening  Derling,  sent  downtown  for 
medicine,  heard  at  the  druggist's  that  'Thusia's 
child  had  diphtheria  and  that  there  was  a  fresh 


92  DOMINIE   DEAN 

outbreak  of  the  disease  in  town.  He  drove  his 
horse  home  at  a  gallop  and  found  Martin  there, 
and  Mary,  white  and  panic-stricken,  wringing  her 
hands.  When  the  young  doctor  admitted  that  the 
child  had  diphtheria  Derling,  in  a  rage,  almost 
threw  him  out  of  the  house.  A  slight  fever  was 
one  thing,  the  dread  disease  was  quite  another, 
and  he  left  Mary  weeping,  and  lashed  his  horse  in 
search  of  Dr.  Benedict. 

The  old  doctor  was  not  at  home ;  Derling  found 
him  at  David's  and  found  him  in  a  tearing  rage. 
Mrs.  Hardcome,  hoping  to  force  David's  resigna- 
tion, had  just  called  to  warn  David  that  if  he 
wished  to  protect  himself  he  must  attend  the 
meeting  the  next  evening.  Benedict  was  still 
spluttering  with  anger  and  tramping  up  and 
down  David's  little  study,  when  Derling  found 
him. 

1 ' You!"  he  shouted.  "Go  to  your  house?  I'd 
let  you  all  rot  first,  the  whole  lot  of  you.  Go 
get  your  Martin,  you  called  him  quick  enough.  I 
wouldn't  go  if  you  got  on  your  knees  to  me.  You 
and  your  dog-faced  father-in-law  and  your  Hard- 
comes,  trying  to  drive  this  poor  girl  out  of  town ! 
If  this  was  my  house  I'd  throw  you  out.  I  will 
anyway!  Get  out!" 

Poor  Derling — harmless  enough  creature — did 
all  but  get  on  his  knees.  He  went  away  haggard, 
and  looking  twenty  years  older,  to  find  some  other 
physician.  He  got  Wagenheim,  a  poor  substitute. 
In  fact  there  was  no  substitute  for  Benedict.  It 
may  have  been  that  luck  favored  him,  but  the  old 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       93 

doctor  seemed  able  to  wrest  children  from  the 
clutches  of  the  awful  disease  far  oftener  than 
other  physicians.  Derling  felt  that  the  angry  old 
doctor  had  condemned  his  son  to  death.  With  the 
witlessness  of  a  distracted  man  he  tried  to  find 
Eose  Hinch  at  her  room  on  the  main  street,  think- 
ing Rose  might  plead  for  him  with  Benedict.  He 
might  have  known  Rose  would  be  with  'Thusia 
in  such  an  hour  of  trial.  He  went  home,  dread- 
ing to  face  Mary,  and  found  Wagenheim  doing 
what  he  could,  which  was  little  enough.  Mary 
was  not  there. 

When  Wagenheim  came  Mary  had  guessed  that 
Derling  had  not  got  Benedict,  and  she  guessed 
why.  She  ran,  half  dressed  and  hatless  as  she 
was,  all  the  way  to  the  manse.  In  her  agony  she 
still  thought  clearly;  Benedict  would  be  there, 
and  if  he  was  not  there  David  would  be,  and  in 
David — calm  and  faithful  to  all  his  people  even 
when  they  turned  against  him — she  placed  her 
hope.  In  the  dark  she  could  not  find  the  bell  and 
she  was  fumbling  at  the  door  when  it  opened  and 
'Thusia  stood  before  her,  silhouetted  against  the 
light.  With  the  impulse  of  one  suffering  mother 
in  the  presence  of  another,  Mary  grasped 
'Thusia 's  arms. 

*  "Thusia!"  she  cried.  "My  boy  is  dying  and 
Benedict  won't  come.  Can't  you  make  him  come? 
He  knows,  and  he  won't  come!" 

'Thusia  drew  back  in  horror. 

' '  He  knows  ?  And  he  won 't  go  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
*  *  But  Mary,  he  must  go !  Why — why — but  he  must 


94  DOMINIE   DEAN 

go,  Mary!  I  don't  understand!  Benedict — won't 
—go?" 

She  turned  and  flew  to  the  study  where  Bene- 
dict had  usurped  David's  easy-chair.  She  stood 
before  him,  one  mother  pleading  for  another.  No 
one  but  the  three — Benedict  and  'Thusia  and 
Mary — will  ever  know  what  she  said,  but  when 
she  had  said  it  old  Benedict  drew  himself  out  of 
the  chair  and  went  with  Mary. 

A  week  later  little  Davy,  'Thusia 's  child,  died. 
Mary  was  more  fortunate ;  her  boy  recovered  and 
although  it  was  long  before  he  was  strong  again 
Mary  treasured  him  all  the  more.  Rose  Hinch, 
her  work  at  David's  ended,  went  to  her  and  for 
many  weeks  was  like  another  mother  to  the  sick 
child. 

But  it  was  the  night  following  old  Benedict's 
denunciation  of  Derling  and  all  the  Hardcome 
clique  that  David  Dean  found  a  new  supporter. 
The  meeting  that  was  to  end  his  stay  in  River- 
bank  was  to  be  held  in  Ned  Long's  office  and 
David  went  early,  not  to  be  accused  of  cowardice. 
He  left  'Thusia  and  Rose  with  the  boy,  drove  old 
Benedict  away,  and  went  alone.  He  walked 
slowly,  his  head  bowed  and  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him,  for  he  had  no  hope  left.  It  was  so  he 
came  to  the  foot  of  Ned  Long's  office  stairs  and 
face  to  face  with  old  Sam  Wiggett  standing  in  the 
dark  of  the  entry.  He  stopped  short,  for  the 
bulky  old  man  did  not  move  aside. 

"Huh!"  growled  the  old  lumberman.  "So  it's 
you,  is  it?  What  are  you  doing  here?" 


THE  BLACK  PRUNELLA  GAITERS       95 

" There's  a  meeting — "  David  began. 

"Meeting?  No,  by  the  eternal!  there's  not 
going  to  be  any  meeting,  now  nor  ever!  I'll 
throw  them  out  neck  and  crop ;  I'll  boot  them  out, 
but  there'll  be  no  meeting.  Go  home!"  In  the 
dark  the  heavy-jowled  old  man  scowled  at  the 
slender  young  dominie.  Suddenly  he  put  his  hand 
on  David's  shoulder.  "Dean — Dean — "  he  sjaid; 
"you  and  that  little  wife  of  yours — "  That  was 
all  he  could  say.  Mary's  boy,  at  home,  was  mak- 
ing the  awful  struggle  for  life. 

And  there  was  no  meeting.  A  month  later  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hardcome  went  to  the  Episcopalians, 
and  a  half  year  later  to  the  Congregationalists, 
where  they  remained.  There  was  a  lull  in  the 
church  quarrel  during  the  days  when  little  Davy 
was  sickest,  and  while  David  and  'Thusia  were  in 
the  first  cruel  days  of  grief.  There  were  but  few 
bitter  enough  to  wish  to  take  up  the  fight  again 
against  the  sorrowing  'Thusia.  The  quarrel  was 
buried  with  little  Davy,  for  when  David  entered 
the  pulpit  again,  and  the  congregation  waited  to 
learn  how  their  leaders  would  lead  them,  the 
powerful  man  of  the  church  decided  for  them. 
When  David  came  down  from  the  pulpit  old  Sam 
Wiggett,  stolid,  heavy-faced  and  thick-necked, 
waited  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  aisle  and  placed 
his  arm  around  David's  shoulders,  and  Mary 
Derling  crossed  the  aisle  and  stood  beside  'Thusia 
Dean. 

David  had  won. 


VII 

MACK 

DAVID  had  won.  Except  for  the  defection  of 
the  Hardcomes — who  left  behind  them  a 
feeling  that  they  were  trouble-makers  and 
were  not  greatly  regretted — the  church  continued 
its  even  tenor.  It  must  always  be  a  question, 
however,  whether  David  would  not  have  done  bet- 
ter by  losing.  Eiverbank  grew  in  population,  as 
shown  by  the  census,  but  the  growth  was  not  one 
to  prosper  the  Presbyterian  Church  at  River- 
bank.  The  sawmills  brought  nearly  all  the  new- 
comers— immigrants  from  Germany  almost  en- 
tirely— and  these  had  their  own  churches.  The 
increase  in  population  offered  little  material  with 
which  to  build  up  David's  congregation. 

At  that  time  but  few  farmers,  grown  wealthy, 
moved  into  town.  The  town  hardly  realized,  until 
the  lumber  business  died,  how  contracted  was  the 
circle  of  its  industries.  The  few  men  of  wealth 
were  all  firmly  affiliated  with  one  church  or  an- 
other— as  were  also  all  the  well-to-do — and,  with 
no  available  new  blood,  it  was  inevitable  that 
the  numbers  in  the  existing  churches  should  re- 
main almost  stationary. 

Liberality  was  not  a  trait  of  the  wealthy  of 
Eiverbank  at  that  day.  Like  old  Sam  Wiggett, 

96 


MACK  97 

those  with  money  had  had  their  hard  grubbing  at 
first  and  knew  almost  too  well  the  value  of  a  dol- 
lar. The  ministers  of  the  various  churches  in 
Eiverbank  were  paid  but  paltry  sums  and  their 
salaries  were  often  in  arrears. 

Had  David  lost  his  fight  and  been  driven  from 
Eiverbank  he  might,  and  probably  would,  have 
gone  far.  He  preached  well  and  was  still  young. 
It  is  hardly  possible  that  he  would  have  felt  for  a 
new  church  the  affection  he  felt  for  the  church 
at  Biverbank,  and  he  might  have  gone  from 
church  to  church  until  he  was  in  some  excellent 
metropolitan  pulpit.  For  Eiverbank  he  felt,  com- 
ing here  so  young,  something  of  the  affection  of 
a  man  for  his  birthplace. 

In  the  years  following  the  church  quarrel  David 
began  to  feel  the  pinch  of  an  inadequate  remuner- 
ation. After  little  Eoger  was  born  'Thusia  was, 
for  a  year,  more  or  less  of  an  invalid,  and  a  maid 
was  a  necessity.  The  additional  drains  on 
David's  income,  slight  as  they  were,  meant  real 
hardship  when  he  had  with  difficulty  kept  out  of 
debt  before.  Two  years  later  little  Alice  was 
born,  and  'Thusia  was  kept  to  her  bed,  an  invalid, 
longer  than  before.  They  were  sad  days  for 
David.  For  a  month  'Thusia  hung  between  life 
and  death,  and  Mary  Derling  and  Eose  Hinch, 
with  old  Dr.  Benedict,  spared  neither  time  nor 
affection. 

Eose  Hinch  put  aside  all  remunerative  calls  and 
nursed  'Thusia  night  and  day.  Dr.  Benedict  was 
equally  faithful,  and  the  women  of  David's  con- 


98  DOMINIE   DEAN 

gregation  deluged  the  manse  with  jellies,  flowers, 
bowls  of  ' 'floating  island"  and  other  dainties,  but 
when  'Thusia  was  up  and  about  again  David 
faced  a  debt  of  nearly  three  hundred  dollars.  As 
soon  as  'Thusia  was  able  to  stand  the  strain  the 
church  gave  David  a  donation  party.  Pickles  and 
preserves  predominated,  but  a  purse  made  a  part 
of  the  donation  and  left  David  only  some  hundred 
and  seventy  or  eighty  dollars  in  debt. 

This  is  no  great  sum  nor  did  any  of  his  credi- 
tors press  him  unduly  for  payment.  His  bills 
were  small  and  scattered.  He  tried  to  pay  them, 
but  in  spite  of  'Thusia 's  greatest  efforts  each 
salary  period  saw  an  unpaid  balance  seldom 
smaller,  and  sometimes  slightly  greater,  than  the 
original  debt.  This  debt  worried  David  and 
'Thusia  far  more  than  it  worried  his  creditors 
— who  worried  not  at  all — but  before  long  it 
seemed  to  become,  as  such  things  do,  a  part  of 
life.  David's  bills,  paid  at  one  end  and  increased 
at  the  other,  were  never  over  three  months  in 
arrears.  In  Riverbank  at  that  day  this  was  con- 
sidered unusually  prompt  pay.  Accounts  were 
usually  rendered  once  a  year.  But  the  debt  was 
always  there. 

The  year  her  boy  was  three  Mary  Derling  di- 
vorced her  husband.  For  some  time  one  of 
Derling 's  flirtations  had  been  more  serious  than 
Mary  had  imagined.  When  she  heard  the  truth 
she  talked  the  matter  over  calmly  with  her  father 
and  her  husband.  All  three  were  of  one  mind. 
Derling 's  father  had  consistently  refused  to  give 


MACK  99 

the  son  money  and  Sam  Wiggett  had  again  and 
again  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  make  good 
sums  lost  by  Derling  in  ill-considered  business 
ventures.  The  truth  was  that  Derling 's  flirtations 
were  costing  too  much,  and  he  spent  more  than  he 
could  afford.  Wiggett,  to  be  rid  of  this  constant 
drain,  gave  Derling  a  good  lump  sum  and  Mary 
kept  the  child.  The  divorce  was  granted  quietly, 
no  one  knowing  anything  about  it  until  it  was  all 
over.  There  was  no  scandal  whatever.  Derling 
went  back  to  Derlingport  and  was  soon  forgotten, 
and  Mary  resumed  her  maiden  name.  More  than 
ever,  now,  she  took  part  in  David's  work,  and 
her  purse  was  always  at  his  service  for  his  works 
of  charity.  David,  Eose  Hinch  and  Mary  were  a 
triumvirate  working  together  for  the  good. 

At  thirty-seven  Dominie  Dean  was  as  fully  a 
man  as  he  ever  would  be.  He  was  fated  to  cling 
always  to  his  boyish  optimism;  never  to  age  into 
a  heavily  authoritative  head  of  a  flock,  with  a 
smooth  paunch  over  which  to  pass  a  plump  hand 
as  if  blessing  a  satisfactory  digestive  apparatus. 
To  the  last  day  of  his  life  he  remained  youthfully 
slender,  and  his  clear  gray  eyes  and  curly  hair, 
even  when  the  latter  turned  gray,  suggested  some- 
thing boyish. 

It  is  inevitable  that  fifteen  years  of  ministry 
shall  either  make  or  mar  the  man  inside  the 
minister.  David  Dean  had  ripened  without  dry- 
ing into  a  hack  of  church  routine.  At  thirty  he 
had,  without  being  aware  of  the  fact,  entered  a 
new  period  of  his  ministry,  and  at  thirty-seven, 


100  DOMINIE    DEAN 

like  a  pilot  who  knows  his  ship,  he  was  no  longer 
prone  to  excitement  over  small  difficulties.  If  he 
was  no  longer  a  flash  of  fire,  he  was  a  steadier 
flame. 

In  fifteen  years  David  had  come  to  love  Biver- 
bank,  even  to  having  a  half-quizzical  and  smil- 
ingly philosophical  love  for  the  Wiggetts,  Grims- 
bys  and  others  who  had  once  been  thorns  in  his 
flesh.  Their  simple  closefistedness,  generosity 
based  on  ambition  and  transparent,  harmless,  hy- 
pocrisy were,  after  all,  human  traits,  and  while 
not  exactly  pleasant  neither  more  nor  less  than 
part  of  the  world  in  which  David  had  his  work 
to  do.  Wherever  one  went,  or  whatever  work 
one  undertook,  there  were  Wiggetts  and  Hard- 
comes  and  Grimsbys.  They  were  part  of  life. 
They  were  irritants,  but  it  rested  with  David 
whether  he  should  feel  their  irritation  as  a  scratch 
or  a  tickle.  Until  he  was  thirty  he  had  often 
smarted;  now  he  smiled. 

In  the  self-centered  little  town  there  were  good 
people  and  bad  and,  as  is  the  case  everywhere, 
fewer  actively  vicious  than  we  are  pleased  to 
assume.  David  cherished  a  philosophy  of  pity 
for  these.  If  old  Wiggett  had  so  much  good  in 
him,  and  'Thusia,  who  was  now  as  faithful  a 
wife  and  mother  as  Eiverbank  could  boast,  had 
once  been  on  the  verge  of  being  cold-shouldered 
into  a  life  of  triviality,  if  not  of  shame,  no  doubt 
all  these  others,  if  they  had  been  properly  guided 
in  the  beginning,  might  have  been  as  normal  as 
old  Mrs.  Grelling,  or  the  absolutely  colorless  Mr. 


MACK  101 

Prell.  With  all  this  willingness  to  make  allow- 
ances for  the  sinner,  David  had  a  hard,  uncom- 
promising, Presbyterian  hatred  for  the  sin.  In 
one  of  his  sermons  he  put  it  thus:  "To  sin  is 
human;  the  sin  is  of  the  devil."  It  was  in  this 
spirit  David  began  his  long  fight  against  Mac- 
dougal  Graham's  personal  devil. 

When  David  Dean  came  to  Riverbank  Mack 
Graham  had  been  a  bright-eyed,  saucy,  curly- 
haired  little  fellow  of  five  or  six;  a  "why?"  sort 
of  boy — "Why  do  you  wear  a  white  necktie?  Why 
do  you  have  to  stand  in  the  pulpit  f  Why  did  Mr. 
Wiggett  get  up  and  go  out  I  Why's  that  horse 
standing  on  three  legs?"  Certain  ladies  of  the 
church  made  a  great  pet  of  Mack  and  helped  spoil 
him,  for  he  was  as  handsome  as  he  was  saucy. 
An  only  son,  born  late  in  his  parents'  lives,  they 
prepared  the  way  for  his  disgrace.  It  may  be 
well  enough,  as  Emerson  advises,  to  "cast  the 
bantling  on  the  rocks,"  but  leaving  an  only  son 
to  his  own  devices  on  the  theory  that  he  is  the 
finest  boy  in  creation  and  can  do  no  wrong  does 
not  work  out  as  well.  At  nineteen  Mack  was 
wild,  unruly  and  drinking  himself  to  ruin. 

David's  first  knowledge  of  the  state  into  which 
Mack  had  fallen  came  from  'Thusia.  There  had 
been  one  of  those  periodical  church  squabbles  in 
which  the  elder  members  had  locked  horns  with 
the  younger  and  more  progressive  over  some  un- 
important question  that  had  rapidly  grown  vital, 
and  David  had,  for  a  while,  been  busy  impoverish- 
ing the  little  conflagration  so  that  it  might  burn 


102  DOMINIE   DEAN 

out  the  more  quickly.  The  church  was  subject 
to  these  little  affairs.  In  the  fifteen  years  of  his 
ministry  David  had  seen  the  church  change  slowly 
as  a  natural  result  of  children  reaching  maturity, 
and  the  passing  of  the  aged.  Some  who  liked 
David's  sermons  left  other  churches  and  joined 
the  congregation,  and  there  were  a  few  accre- 
tions of  newcomers,  but  from  the  first  the  older 
members  had  resented  any  interference  with  their 
management  on  the  part  of  new  and  younger 
members.  A  change  in  the  choir,  an  effort  to  have 
the  dingy  interior  of  the  church  redecorated,  any 
one  of  a  thousand  petty  matters  would,  if  sug- 
gested by  the  newer  members,  throw  the  older 
men  into  a  line  of  battle. 

It  was,  in  a  way,  a  quarrelsome  church.  It  was, 
indeed,  not  only  in  Eiverbank  but  throughout  the 
country,  a  quarrelsome  time.  The  first  rills  of 
broader  doctrine  were  beginning  to  permeate  the 
hot  rock  of  petrified  religion  and  where  they  met 
there  was  sure  to  be  steam  and  boiling  water  and 
discomfort  for  the  minister,  whether  he  held  with 
one  side  or  the  other,  or  tried  to  be  neutral.  The 
Riverbank  church,  because  of  the  conservatism 
of  the  older  members,  was  particularly  prone  to 
petty  quarrels,  and  this  was  one  of  David's  great- 
est distresses.  At  heart  he  was  with  those  who 
favored  the  broader  view,  but  he  was  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  fond  jealousy  of  the  older  men  and 
women  for  old  thoughts  and  ways. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  quarrels,  when  he  had 
found  himself  unduly  busied  healing  wounds,  that 


MACK  103 

'Thusia  came  running  across  from  the  Mannings ', 
opposite  the  manse,  and  tapped  on  David's  study 
door. 

"Yes?    Come  in!"  he  said. 

"David!  It's  Mack — Mack  Graham — he  is 
drunk!" 

"Mack  drunk!"  David  cried,  for  he  could  not 
believe  he  had  heard  aright.  "Not  our  Mack!" 

David,  his  lanky  form  slid  down  in  his  great 
chair  so  that  he  was  sitting  on  the  small  of  his 
back,  had  been  thinking  over  his  sermon  for  the 
next  Sunday.  No  one  could  sit  in  David's  great 
chair  without  sliding  down  and  down  and  down 
into  comfort  or  into  extreme  discomfort.  It  had 
taken  David  a  long  time  to  become  part  of  the 
chair,  so  that  he  could  feel  the  comfort  of  utter 
relaxation  of  body  it  demanded.  In  time  the  chair 
grew  to  be  a  part  of  the  David  we  all  knew. 
Those  of  us  who  knew  him  best  can  never  forget 
him  as  he  was  when  he  sat  in  that  old  chair,  his 
feet  on  the  floor,  his  knees  almost  as  high  as  his 
chin,  his  hands  loosely  folded  over  his  waist,  so 
that  his  thin,  expressive  thumbs  could  tap  to- 
gether in  emphasis  as  he  talked,  and  his  head 
forward  so  that  his  chin  rested  on  the  bosom  of 
his  shirt.  Slumped  down  like  this  in  the  great 
chair,  he  talked  to  us  of  things  we  talked  of  no- 
where else.  We  could  talk  religion  with  David 
when  he  was  in  his  chair  quite  as  if  it  were  an 
interesting  subject.  Many  of  us  can  remember 
his  smile  as  he  listened  to  our  feeble  objections  to 
his  logic,  or  how  he  ran  his  hand  through  his 


104  DOMINIE    DEAN 

curls  and  tossed  one  knee  on  top  of  the  other 
when  it  was  time  to  bring  the  full  battery  of  his 
mind  against  us.  It  was  while  slumped  into  his 
great  chair  that  David  had  most  of  his  famous 
word  battles  with  old  Doc  Benedict,  and  there, 
his  fine  brow  creased,  he  listened  when  Rose  Hinch 
told  of  someone  in  need  or  in  trouble.  When  we 
happened  in  and  David  was  out  and  we  waited 
for  him  in  his  study  that  chair  was  the  emptiest 
chair  man  ever  saw  in  the  world.  The  hollows 
of  the  threadbare  old  green  rep  always  seemed  to 
hunger  for  David  as  no  other  chair  ever  hungered 
for  any  other  man.  No  other  man  or  woman  ever 
fitted  the  chair.  I  always  felt  like  an  overturned 
turtle  in  it,  with  my  neck  vainly  trying  to  get  my 
head  above  the  engulfing  hollow.  Only  David  and 
little  children  felt  comfortable  in  the  chair,  for 
in  it  little  children — David's  own  or  others — could 
curl  up  as  comfortably  as  a  kitten  in  a  rug. 

It  was  out  of  this  chair  David  scrambled,  full 
of  fight,  when  'Thusia  brought  him  the  news  that 
Mack  was  drunk. 

What  'Thusia  had  to  tell  David  was  clear 
enough  and  sad  enough.  From  his  great  chair, 
when  David  raised  his  eyes,  he  could  see  the 
Mannings '  house  across  the  way,  white  with  green 
blinds,  cool  in  the  afternoon  shadows.  Some- 
times Amy  Manning  and  sometimes  her  mother 
and  sometimes  both  sat  on  the  porch,  busied  with 
the  trifles  of  needlework  women  love.  It  was 
always  a  pleasant  picture,  the  house  framed  be- 
tween the  trunks  of  two  great  maples,  the  lawn 


MACK  105 

crisply  cut  and  mottled  with  sunshine  and  shadow, 
and  at  one  side  of  the  house  a  spot  of  geranium 
glowing  red  in  the  sun  with,  at  the  other  side,  a 
mass  of  shrubbery  against  which  a  foliage  border 
of  red  and  green  fell,  in  the  afternoons,  just 
within  the  shadow  and  had  all  the  quality  of  rich 
Italian  brocade. 

Sometimes  'Thusia  would  run  across  to  visit 
a  few  minutes  with  Amy  Manning,  and  sometimes 
Amy — her  needlework  gathered  in  her  apron — 
would  come  running  across  to  sit  awhile  with 
'Thusia.  The  two  were  very  fond.  'Thusia  had 
reached  the  age  when  she  was  always  humorously 
complaining  about  having  to  let  out  the  seams  of 
her  last  year's  dresses,  and  Amy  was  hardly  more 
than  a  girl,  but  propinquity  or  some  contrast  or 
similarity  of  disposition  had  made  them  the  best 
of  friends.  Perhaps  'Thusia  had  never  lost  all 
her  girlish  qualities,  and  certainly  Amy  had  been 
something  of  a  woman  even  as  a  child.  For  all 
the  years  that  divided  them  they  were  more 
nearly  of  an  age  than  many  who  reckoned  from 
the  same  birth  year.  Such  friendships  are  far 
from  rare  and  are  often  the  best  and  most  lasting. 

David  had  seen  Amy  grow;  had  seen  her  fall 
bumping — a  little  ball  of  white — down  the  Man- 
ning porch  steps  and  had  heard  (and  still  heard) 
the  low-voiced  and  long  lasting  farewells  she  and 
Mack  exchanged  at  the  Mannings'  gate,  young 
love  making  the  most  of  itself,  and  making  a 
twenty-four  hour  tragedy  out  of  a  parting.  The 
girl  had  been  tall  at  fourteen  and  even  then  had 


106  DOMINIE   DEAN 

certain  womanly  gestures  and  manners.  She  had 
always  been  a  sweet  girl,  frank,  gentle,  even-tem- 
pered, with  clear  eyes  showing  she  had  a  good 
brain  back  of  their  blue.  She  was  always,  as  the 
saying  is  in  Eiverbank,  "interested  in  church.'* 
Her  religion  was  something  real  and  vital.  She 
accepted  her  faith  in  full  and  lived  it,  not  bother- 
ing with  the  artificial  agonies  of  soul  that  some 
youngsters  find  necessary.  From  a  girl  of  this 
kind  she  had  grown  into  a  young  woman,  calm, 
clean,  sterling.  She  had  a  healthy  love  of 
pleasure  in  any  of  the  unforbidden  forms,  and, 
before  Mack  Graham  slipped  a  ring  on  her  finger, 
she  liked  to  have  half  a  dozen  young  whipper- 
snappers  showing  attention,  quite  like  any  other 
girl.  She  even  liked,  after  that,  to  see  that  two 
or  three  of  the  whipper-snappers  were  jealous  of 
Mack. 

Mack  was  never  jealous  and  could  not  be.  He 
was  one  of  the  laughing,  conquering  hero  kind. 
Amy  was  his  from  the  moment  he  decided  she  was 
the  finest  girl  in  the  world;  he  never  considered 
any  rival  worth  a  worry.  In  olden  days  he  would 
have  been  a  carefree,  swashbuckling  D'Artagnan 
sort  of  fellow,  and  this,  in  nose-to-grindstone 
Riverbank,  made  him  a  great  favorite  and  it  led 
him  to  consort  with  a  set  of  young  fellows  of  the 
gayer  sdrt  with  whom  he  learned  to  crook  his 
elbow  over  a  bar  and  continue  to  crook  it  until  the 
alcohol  had  tainted  his  blood  and  set  up  its  im- 
perative cry  for  more.  When  David  took  up  the 
fight  for  Mack  this  alcohol  yearning  had  become 


MACK  107 

well  intrenched,  and  the  conquering  hero  trait  in 
the  young  fellow 's  character  made  the  fight  doubly 
hard,  for  Mack — more  than  any  man  I  have  ever 
known — believed  in  himself  and  that  he  could 
"stop  off  short"  whenever  he  really  wished. 

The  thing  that,  more  than  all  else,  kept  Mack 
from  rapid  ruin  was  his  engagement.  Love  has  a 
certain  power,  and  there  are  some  men  it  will 
reform  or  hold  from  evil,  but  it  could  not  hold 
Mack.  The  yearning  for  alcohol  had  found  its 
place  in  his  system  before  Amy  had  found  her 
place  in  his  heart.  The  very  night  of  his  engage- 
ment was  celebrated  in  Dan  Eeilly's;  Amy's  kiss 
was  hardly  dry  on  his  lips  before  he  moistened 
them  with  whisky,  and  it  probably  never  occurred 
to  him  that  he  was  doing  wrong.  Before  he  had 
received  all  the  congratulations  that  were  pushed 
over  the  bar,  however,  he  was  sickeningly  intoxi- 
cated. Amy's  father,  returning  home  from  a  late 
session  with  a  trial  balance,  ran  across  Mack  and 
two  of  his  companions  swaying  perilously  on  the 
curb  of  Main  Street,  each  maudlinly  insisting  that 
he  was  sober  and  should  see  the  other  two  safely 
home.  It  was  ridiculous  and  laughable,  but  Mr. 
Manning  did  not  laugh;  he  knew  Amy  was  more 
than  fond  of  Mack.  He  told  Amy  about  Mack 
before  she  had  a  good  opportunity  to  tell  him  of 
her  engagement.  This  was  the  next  morning. 

Mack,  of  course,  came  to  see  Amy  that  evening. 
In  spite  of  a  full  day  spent  in  trying  to  remove 
the  traces  of  the  night's  spree  he  showed  evi- 
dences that  he  had  taken  one  or  two  drinks  to 


108  DOMINIE   DEAN 

steady  his  nerves  before  seeing  Amy.  He  was 
a  little  too  hilarious  when  he  met  her  at  the  door, 
not  offensive,  but  too  talkative.  It  was  a  cruel 
position  for  the  girl.  She  loved  Mack  and  loved 
him  tremendously,  but  she  had  more  than  common 
sense.  She  knew  she  had  but  one  life  to  live,  and 
she  had  set  her  ideals  of  happiness  long  before. 
A  drunken  husband  was  not  one  of  them. 

She  talked  to  Mack.  She  did  not  have,  to  help 
her,  an  older  woman's  experience  of  the  world, 
and  she  had  against  her  the  love  that  urged  her  to 
throw  herself  in  Mack's  arms  and  weep  away  the 
seriousness  of  the  affair.  She  had  against  her, 
too — for  it  was  against  her  with  a  man  like  Mack 
— her  overflowing  religious  eagerness  which 
would  have  led  another  girl  to  press  the  church 
and  prayer  upon  him  as  a  cure.  No  doubt  it 
was  a  strange  conglomeration  of  love,  religion 
and  common  sense  she  gave  him,  but  the  steel 
frame  of  it  all  was  that  she  could  not  marry  a 
man  who  drank.  She  left  no  doubt  of  that. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,  Amy,  that's  all  right!" 
Mack  said.  "I'll  quit  the  stuff.  I  can  quit  when- 
ever I  want  to.  Last  night  I  just  happened  to 
meet  the  boys  and  I  was  feeling  happy — say,  no 
fellow  ever  had  a  bigger  right  to  feel  happy! — 
and  maybe  I  took  one  or  two  too  many.  No  more 
for  little  Mack!" 

They  left  it  that  way  and  went  into  the  dining 
room,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manning  were,  to  an- 
nounce the  engagement  formally.  It  was  two 
months  before  Mack  toppled  again.  This  was  the 


MACK  109 

first  'Thusia  and  David  knew  of  it.  'Thusia  and 
Amy  had  been  sitting  on  the  Mannings'  porch 
when  Mack  came  up.  Anyone  would  have  known 
he  was  intoxicated,  he  was  so  intoxicated  he 
swayed.  He  talked,  but  his  lips  refused  to  fully 
form  the  words  he  tried  to  use.  He  had  come  up, 
he  said,  to  convince  the  little  rascal — meaning 
Amy — that  it  was  all  nonsense  not  to  be  married 
right  away.  When  he  tried  to  say  "nonsense" 
he  said,  "nom-nom-nomsemse,  all  nomsemse." 

"Mack  and  I  want  to  have  a  talk,  'Thusia, " 
Amy  said,  and  'Thusia  gathered  up  her  sewing 
and  fled  to  David. 

When  'Thusia  had  told  David  all  she  knew, 
David  walked  to  the  window,  his  thin  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  and  looked  across  toward 
the  Mannings'.  Amy  had  taken  Mack  into  the 
house  to  hide  his  shame  from  chance  passers-by. 
For  several  minutes  David  stood  at  the  window 
while  'Thusia  waited.  He  turned  at  last. 

"It  is  my  fault,"  he  said.  "I  should  have 
thought  of  him." 

That  was  like  David  Dean.  His  shoulders  were 
always  overloaded  wiih  others'  burdens,  and  it 
was  like  David  to  blame  himself  for  having  over- 
looked one  burden  more. 


VIII 
THE  GREATER  GOOD 

MACK  was  not  the  only  weak  creature  David 
was  trying  to  help.  Helpfulness  was  his 
life.  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  of  David 
as  eager  for  overwork,  or  as  eager  for  greater 
burdens.  He  was  always  loaded  down  with 
others'  fights  against  poverty,  passion  and  sin 
because  something  within  him  always  said :  * '  This 
is  one  case  in  which  you  can  be  of  actual  help." 
Before  he  was  aware  he  would  be  enlisted  in  these 
individual  battles,  with  all  the  close  personal  de- 
tails that  made  them  living  sorrows. 

Inside  the  broad  fight  the  church  was  making 
to  strengthen  character  and  maintain  morality 
these  individual  battles  were  fought.  How  could 
David  stand  aloof  from  the  battle  of  old  Mrs. 
Miggs  against  poverty,  with  her  penchant  for 
spending  the  alms  she  received  for  flummery 
dress;  or  from  the  battle  of  old  Wickham  Reid 
against  his  insane  inclination  to  suicide ;  or  from 
the  battles  of  all  the  backsliders  of  one  kind  and 
another;  or  from  the  battle  of  the  Rathgebers 
against  starvation ;  the  battle  of  young  Ross  Bald- 
win against  the  trains  of  thought  that  were  urg- 
ing him  to  unbelief;  or  all  the  battles  against 
alcohol?  These  were  lame  dogs  David  was  help- 
ing over  stiles.  There  were  battles  David  won 
no 


THE    GREATER   GOOD  111 

in  an  hour;  there  were  other  battles  that  length- 
ened into  sieges,  where  sin  and  sinners  "dug  in" 
and  struggled  for  years. 

In  some  of  these  'Thusia  could  help  David,  and 
she  did  help,  most  willingly,  but  'Thusia  had  her 
own  battles.  Like  most  ministers '  wives  she  had 
a  constant  battle  to  make  David's  inadequate 
salary  meet  the  household  expenses.  When,  after 
one  of  the  usual  church  quarrels,  those  in  favor 
of  putting  the  choir  in  surplices  won,  'Thusia 
was  sorry  she  was  not  in  the  choir;  her  worn 
Sunday  gown  would  not  then  be  a  weekly  humili- 
ation. Her  hats,  poor  things!  were  problems  as 
difficult  to  finance  as  a  war.  The  grocer's  bill  was 
a  monthly  catastrophe;  "the  wood  is  low  again, 
David,"  was  an  announcement  'Thusia  felt  was 
almost  unkind.  She  spent  five  times  as  long  turn- 
ing a  dress  that  was  no  pleasure  after  it  was 
turned  than  she  should  have  had  to  spend  getting 
a  new  one.  The  lack  of  a  few  dollars  to  "do 
with"  is  the  greatest  waster  of  a  faithful  home- 
keeper's  time. 

The  hope  of  a  call  to  a  church  that  will  pay 
enough  to  supply  those  few  dollars  is  one  many 
ministers'  wives  cherish. 

David  picked  up  his  hat  and  waited  on  his  own 
porch  until  he  saw  Mack  come  from  the  Mannings' 
door;  then  he  crossed  the  street. 

'  *  'Lo,  dominie ! ' '  Mack  said  unsteadily.  ' '  Little 
girl's  been  giving  me  Hail  Columbia.  She's  all 
right,  dominie;  fine  little  girl.  I'm  ashamed  of 
myself.  Told  you  so,  didn't  I,  little  girl?" 


112  DOMINIE   DEAN 

David  put  his  hand  on  Mack's  shoulder. 

''She  is  a  fine  girl,  Mack,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  finer  girl  in  America  than  Amy.  Suppose  we 
take  a  walk,  Mack,  a  good  long  walk  out  into  the 
country  and  tell  each  other  just  how  fine  Amy  is." 

Mack  smiled  knowingly.  He  put  a  hand  on 
David's  shoulder,  so  that  the  two  men  stood  like 
some  living  statue  of  "United  we  stand." 

"Couldn't  tell  all  about  how  fine  a  little  girl 
she  is  in  one  walk,"  he  said. 

"Come!"  said  David. 

He  put  his  arm  through  Mack's,  and  thus  he 
led  him  away.  The  assistance  was  necessary, 
for  Mack  was  drunker  than  he  had  seemed.  David 
led  him  to  the  country  roads  by  the  shortest  route, 
that  passing  the  cemetery,  and  when  they  were 
beyond  the  town  he  walked  Mack  hard.  He  let 
Mack  do  the  talking  and  kept  him  talking  of  Amy, 
for  of  what  would  a  lover,  drunk  or  sober,  rather 
talk  than  of  his  sweetheart?  It  was  dark  and 
long  past  David's  supper  hour  when  they  reached 
the  town  again,  and  David  drew  Mack  into  the 
manse  for  a  "bite."  After  they  had  eaten  he 
led  him  into  the  study. 

Mack  was  well  past  the  unpleasant  stage  of  his 
intoxication  now,  and  with  'Thusia  sewing  in  her 
little,  low  rocker  and  Mack  in  a  comfortable  chair 
and  David  slumped  down  in  his  own  great  chair, 
they  talked  of  Amy  and  of  a  hundred  things  David 
knew  how  to  make  interesting.  It  was  ten  when 
'Thusia  bade  them  good-night  and  went  out  of 
the  study. 


THE    GREATER   GOOD  113  ^ 

"The  Mannings  are  still  up,"  said  David,  and 
Mack  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"God,  but  I  am  a  beast!"  said  Mack. 

"You  are  worse  than  that,  Mack,  because  you 
are  a  man,"  said  David. 

"Yes,  I'm  worse  than  a  beast,"  said  Mack. 
He  meant  it.  David,  deep  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
on  Mack's  face,  tapped  his  thumbs  slowly  to- 
gether. 

"Mack,"  he  asked,  "just  how  much  of  a  hold 
has  this  drink  got  on  you?" 

"Oh,  I  can  stop  any  time  I — " 

"Yes,  so  can  Doc  Benedict,"  said  David.  "He 
stops  whenever  he  has  had  his  periodical  and 
his  nerves  stop  their  howling  for  the  alcohol.  I 
don't  mean  that,  Mack.  Just  how  insistent  is  the 
wish  for  the  stuff,  when  you  haven't  had  it  for 
a  while,  if  it  makes  you  forget  Amy  as  you  did 
to-day?" 

"Well,  it  is  pretty  insistent,"  Mack  admitted. 
"I  don't  mean  to  get  the  way  I  was  this  after- 
noon, dominie.  Something  starts  me  and  I  keep 
going." 

David's  thumbs  tapped  more  and  more  slowly. 

"You  still  have  the  eyes  of  a  man,  Mack,"  he 
said,  "and  you  are  still  able  to  look  me  in  the 
eyes  like  a  man,  Mack,"  he  said.  "We  ought 
to  be  able  to  beat  this  thing.  Now  go  over  and 
say  good-night  to  Amy.  She'll  sleep  better  for 
seeing  you  as  you  are  now." 

The  next  day  David  learned  more,  and  so  did 
'Thusia.  What  David  learned  was  that  the  two 


114.  DOMINIE    DEAN 

months  that  had  elapsed  between  Mack's  engage- 
ment spree  and  his  next  was  the  longest  period  the 
young  fellow  had  been  sober  for  some  time,  and 
that  Mack  had  already  been  docketed  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  knew  him  best  as  a  hard  and  reck- 
less drinker.  It  meant  the  fight  would  be  harder 
and  longer  than  David  had  hoped.  What  'Thusia 
learned  was  that  Amy  had  had  a  long  talk  with 
Mack  after  he  had  left  David. 

"She  did  not  tell  him,  David,  but  she  told  me, 
that  she  could  not  marry  him  if  he  let  this  happen. 
She  can't  marry  a  drunkard;  no  one  would  want 
her  to ;  but  if  she  throws  him  over  he  will  be  gone, 
David.  She'll  give  him  his  chance,  and  she  will 
help  us — or  let  us  help  her — but  when  she  is  sure 
he  is  beyond  help  she  will  send  him  away.  And 
when  she  sends  him  away — " 

"If  she  sends  him  away  one  great  influence 
will  be  lost,"  said  David.  "She  must  not  send 
him  away." 

"If  he  comes  to  her  drunk  again,"  said  'Thusia, 
as  one  who  has  saved  the  worst  tidings  until  last, 
"she  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  him." 

In  less  than  a  week  Mack  fell  again,  and  Amy, 
her  heart  well-nigh  broken,  gave  him  back  his 
ring,  and  ended  the  engagement.  Then,  indeed, 
began  the  hardest  fight  David  ever  made  for  a 
man  against  that  man's  self.  There  were  nights 
when  David  walked  the  streets  with  Mack  until 
the  youth  fell  asleep  as  he  walked,  and  days  when 
Mack  lay  half  stupid  in  David's  great  chair  while 
the  dominie  scribbled  his  sermon  notes  at  the  desk 


THE   GREATER   GOOD  115~ 

beneath  the  spatter-work  motto:  "Keep  an  even 
mind  under  all  circumstances. ' '  Often  David  and 
old  Doc  Benedict  sat  in  the  same  study  and  dis- 
cussed Mack.  David  from  the  stand  of  one  who 
wanted  to  save  the  young  fellow,  and  Benedict 
as  one  who  knew  the  alcohol  because  it  had  con- 
quered him. 

"Now,  in  my  case,"  the  doctor  would  say,  quite 
as  if  he  were  discussing  another  person;  and, 
"but  on  the  other  hand  I  had  this  gnawing  pain 
in  my  stomach,  while — "  and  so  on. 

There  were  weeks  when  David  felt  he  was  mak- 
ing great  progress  and  other  weeks  when  he  felt 
he  was  not  holding  his  own,  and  some  frightful 
weeks  when  Mack  threw  everything  aside  and 
plunged  into  unbridled  dissipation.  The  periods 
after  these  sprees  were  deceptive.  During  them 
Mack  seemed  to  want  no  liquor  and  vaunted  his 
strength  of  will.  He  boasted  he  would  never 
touch  another  drop. 

There  were  also  periods  of  overwhelming  de- 
feat, and  periods  when  Mack  was  never  drunk  but 
never  sober.  Little  by  little,  however,  David  felt 
he  was  making  progress.  It  was  slow  and  there 
were  no  "Cures"  to  work  a  sudden  change,  as 
there  are  now,  but  under  the  tottering  structure 
of  Mack's  will  David  was  slowly  building  a 
foundation  of  serious  thought.  Mack  was  chang- 
ing. His  dangerous  and  illusive  bravado  was  bit 
by  bit  yielding  to  a  desire  to  do  what  David 
wished. 

It  was  slow  work.    Eather  by  instinct  than  by 


116  DOMINIE   DEAN 

logic  David  saw  that  to  save  Mack  he  must  make 
Mack  like  him  better  than  he  liked  anyone  in 
Riverbank.  Our  David  had  none  of  that  burly 
magnetism  that  draws  men  in  a  moment;  those 
of  us  who  liked  him  best  were  those  who  had 
known  him  longest,  and  he  was  not  the  man  a 
youth  like  Mack  would  instinctively  choose  as  a 
dearest  friend  and  most  frequent  companion.  In 
David's  mind  the  idea  probably  formed  itself 
thus :  "I  must  make  Mack  come  to  me  as  often  as 
possible,"  and,  "Mack  won't  come  unless  he  likes 
me."  He  set  about  making  Mack  like  him,  and 
making  him  like  'Thusia  and  little  Roger  and 
baby  Alice,  and  making  him  like  the  manse  and 
all  that  was  in  it.  With  Amy  turning  her  face 
from  Mack,  and  Mack's  mother  varying  between 
shrewish  scolding  and  maudlin  tears,  and  Mack's 
father  wielding  no  weapon  but  a  threat  of  disin- 
heritance, it  became  necessary  that  Mack  should 
have  someone  he  wished  to  please,  someone  he 
liked  and  respected  and  wished  to  please  more 
than  he  wished  to  please  his  insistent  nerves. 
Each  touch  of  eagerness  added  to  Mack's  face 
as  he  came  up  the  manse  walk  David  counted  a 
gain. 

And  'Thusia,  beside  what  she  did  for  Mack  in 
making  Mack  love  the  manse  and  all  those  in  it, 
worked  with  Amy  and  kept  alive  the  flame  of  her 
love. 

They  were  dear  people,  our  Dominie  Davy  and 
his  wife.  In  time  little  Roger  became  as  eager  to 
see  Mack  as  Mack  was  to  see  David,  and  Mack 


THE   GREATER   GOOD  117 

became  "Ungel  Mack"  to  the  child.  The  boy 
would  climb  the  gate  and  cry,  "Here  cometh 
Ungel  Mack!"  with  all  the  eagerness  of  joyful 
childhood.  Sometimes  when  Mack  was  drunk,  but 
not  too  drunk,  David  would  lead  Eoger  into  the 
study,  and  the  boy  would  say,  "Poor  Ungel  Mack, 
you  thick!"  It  all  helped. 

Together  Mack  and  David  made  the  fight.  Amy, 
according  to  her  light,  did  her  part,  too.  She 
never  fled  from  David's  little  porch  when  she 
happened  to  be  there  and  saw  Mack  coming  up 
the  street.  She  always  gave  Mack  her  hand  in 
frank  and  friendly  manner.  She  did  not  let  the 
other  young  fellows  pay  her  attentions.  It  was 
as  if  Mack  had  never  courted  her ;  as  if  they  were 
bound  by  a  friendship  that  had  never  ripened  into 
anything  warmer  but  that  might  some  day.  Mack 
was  fine  about  it;  eager  as  he  was  to  have  Amy 
he  held  himself  in  check.  Eventually  it  was  a 
great  thing  for  them  both ;  it  was  as  if  they  were 
living  the  difficult  "getting  acquainted"  year  that 
follows  the  honeymoon  before  the  honeymoon  it- 
self. They  got  to  know  each  other  better,  perhaps, 
than  any  Eiverbank  lovers  had  ever  known  one 
another. 

It  was  one  Sunday  afternoon  during  this  stage 
of  Mack's  fight,  while  Mack  and  'Thusia  and  Amy 
were  on  the  porch  and  David  taking  his  between- 
sermon  nap  in  his  great  chair,  that  the  great 
opportunity  came  to  David's  door.  It  came  in 
the  form  of  a  man  of  sixty  years,  silk-hatted  and 
frock-coated.  He  walked  slowly  up  the  street 


118  DOMINIE    DEAN 

from  the  direction  of  the  town,  and  when  he 
reached  David's  gate  he  paused  and  read  the 
number  painted  on  the  riser  of  the  porch  step, 
opened  the  gate  and  entered.  He  removed  his 
hat  and  extended  his  hand  to  'Thusia. 

"You  are  Mrs.  Dean,  I  know,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"My  name  is  Benton,  and  I  don't  think  you  know 
me.  Mr.  Dean  is  in?" 

There  were  many  men  of  many  kinds  came  to 
David's  door  from  one  end  of  a  year  to  the  other, 
but  never  had  a  man  come  whose  face  so  quick- 
ened 'Thusia 's  heart.  It  was  a  strongly  modeled 
face  and  gave  an  impression  of  power.  The  nose 
was  too  large  and  the  lips  were  too  large,  so  'were 
the  brows,  so  were  all  the  features.  It  was  a  face 
that  was  too  large  for  itself,  it  left  no  room  for  the 
eyes,  which  had  to  peer  out  as  best  they  could 
from  between  the  brows  that  crowded  them  from 
above,  and  the  cheekbones  that  crowded  them 
from  below,  but  they  were  kind,  keen,  sane  eyes ; 
they  were  even  twinkling  eyes.  The  man  was 
rather  too  stout  and  his  skin  was  coarse-pored, 
almost  as  if  pitted.  'Thusia  had  never  seen  a 
homelier  man,  and  yet  she  liked  him  from  the  mo- 
ment he  spoke.  It  was  partly  his  voice,  full,  soft 
and,  in  some  way,  satisfying.  She  felt  he  was 
a  big  man  and  a  good  man  and  an  honest  man. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Dean  is  in,"  she  said.  "I  think  he 
is  napping.  If  you  will  just  rest  a  minute  until  I 
see—" 

David,  as  was  his  habit  when  his  visitors  were 
unknown  to  him,  came  to  the  door.  'Thusia 


THE    GREATER   GOOD  119 

slipped  into  the  kitchen.  The  day  was  hot  and 
Mr.  Benton  was  hot,  and  there  were  lemons  and 
ice  in  the  refrigerator,  perhaps  a  pitcher  of 
lemonade  all  ready  to  serve  with  thin  cakes. 

"Mr.  Benton,  my  wife  said,  I  think?"  asked 
David.  * '  Shall  we  sit  out  here  or  go  inside  ? ' ' 

"Might  go  inside,"  said  the  visitor,  and  David 
led  the  way  into  the  study.  Mr.  Benton  placed  his 
hat  on  the  floor  beside  the  chair  David  placed  for 
him,  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  breathed  deeply. 

"Quite  a  hill  you  are  perched  on  here,"  he  said. 
"Fat  man's  misery  on  a  day  like  this.  I  suppose 
you  saw  me  in  church  this  morning?" 

"Yes.  I  tried  to  reach  you  after  the  service, 
but  you  slipped  out." 

"I  ran  away,"  admitted  Mr.  Benton.  "I 
wanted  to  think  that  sermon  over  and  cool  down 
after  it.  It  was  a  good  sermon." 

David  waited. 

"I'm  a  lawyer,"  said  Mr.  Benton,  "and  I'm 
cracked  up  as  quite  an  orator  in  one  way  and 
another,  and  I  know  that  some  of  the  things  that 
sound  best  hot  from  the  lips  don't  amount  to  so 
much  an  hour  later.  That  was  a  good  sermon, 
then  and  now!  It  was  a  remarkable  sermon.  I 
want  you  to  come  to  Chicago  and  preach  that 
same  sermon  to  us  in  the  Boulevard  Church  next 
Sunday,  Mr.  Dean." 

David,  in  his  great  chair,  tapped  his  thumbs 
together  and  looked  at  Mr.  Benton.  He  was  try- 
ing to  keep  an  even  mind  under  circumstances 
that  made  his  pulse  beat  almost  wildly. 


120  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"You  know  now,  as  well  as  you  ever  will,  why 
I'm  here,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Benton.  "We  are 
looking  for  the  right  man  for  our  church,  and  I 
came  here  to  hear  you.  I  think  you  are  the  man 
we  want.  I  can  almost  say  that  if  you  preach 
as  well  for  us  next  Sunday  as  you  did  to-day  we 
will  hardly  dare  let  you  come  back  for  your 
household  goods.  Matter  of  fact,  the  man  I  select 
is  the  man  we  want." 

"I  know  the  church,"  said  David  slowly.  "It 
is  a  splendid  church." 

"It  is  a  good  church,"  said  Mr.  Benton.  "It 
is  a  strong  church  and  a  large  church.  It  is  a 
church  that  needs  a  young  man  and  a  church  in 
which  you  will  have  opportunity  for  the  greater 
good  a  man  such  as  you  always  desires.  I  jotted 
down  a  few  figures  and  so  on — " 

Holding  the  paper  in  his  hand  Mr.  Benton  read 
the  figures;  figures  of  membership,  average  at- 
tendance morning  and  evening,  stipend,  growth, 
details  even  to  the  number  of  rooms  in  the  manse 
and  wnat  the  rooms  were. 

"The  church  pays  the  salary  of  the  secretary," 
he  added. 

David's  thumbs  were  pressed  close  together. 
His  mind  passed  in  rapid  review  the  patched 
breeches  little  Roger  wore  during  the  week,  the 
pitiful  hat  'Thusia  tried  to  make  respectable,  her 
oft-remodeled  gowns.  It  was  comfort  to  the  verge 
of  luxury  Mr.  Benton  was  offering,  as  compared 
with  Riverbank.  It  was  more  than  this:  it  was 
a  broader  field,  a  greater  chance. 


THE    GREATER    GOOD  121 

Slumped  down  in  his  great  chair,  his  eyes 
closed,  David  thought.  It  would  mean  freedom 
from  the  petty  quarrels  that  vexed  the  church  at 
Riverbank ;  it  would  mean  freedom  from  cares  of 
money.  Out  of  the  liberal  stipend  Mr.  Benton 
had  mentioned  they  might  even  put  aside  a  goodly 
bit.  It  would  mean  he  could  start  anew  with  a 
clean  slate  and  be  rid  of  the  stupid  interference 
of  all  the  Hardcome  and  Grimsby  tribe.  'Thusia 
would  be  with  him,  and  Eose  Hinch — who  had 
become,  in  a  way,  a  lay  sister  of  good  works, 
helping  him  with  his  charities — could  be  induced 
to  follow  him.  Then  he  thought  of  old  Mrs. 
Miggs,  and  of  Wickham  Reid,  of  the  Rathgebers 
and  Ross  Baldwin,  and  all  those  whose  fight  he 
was  fighting  in  Riverbank.  And  Mack!  What 
would  become  of  Mack! 

Through  the  window  he  heard  the  voices  of 
Mack  and  Amy. 

"It  is  quite  unexpected,'*  David  said,  opening 
his  eyes.  "I'll  have  to — you  have  no  objection 
to  my  speaking  to  my  wife?" 

The  tinkling  of  ice  in  a  pitcher  sounded  at  the 
door. 

"By  all  means,  speak  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Benton, 
and  as  'Thusia  tapped  David  arose  and  opened 
the  door.  'Thusia  entered. 

"'Thusia,"  David  said,  "Brother  Benton  is 
from  the  Boulevard  Church  in  Chicago.  He  wants 
me  to  preach  there  next  Sabbath  and,  if  the  con- 
gregation is  satisfied,  I  may  be  offered  the  pulpit." 

The    color    slowly    mounted    from    'Thusia 's 


122  DOMINIE   DEAN 

throat  to  her  brow.  She  stood  holding  the  small 
tin  tray,  and  the  glasses  trembled  against  the 
pitcher.  It  did  not  need  the  figures  Mr.  Benton 
reread  to  tell  'Thusia  all  the  opportunity  meant. 
Mr.  Benton  ceased,  and  still  'Thusia  stood  holding 
the  tray.  Her  eyes  left  Mr.  Benton 's  uncouth  face 
and  found  David's  eyes. 

"It — it's  wonderful,  David,"  she  said  steadily, 
"but  of  course  there's  Mack — and  Amy!" 

So  Mr.  Benton  and  the  great  opportunity  went 
back  to  Chicago,  after  a  sip  or  two  of  'Thusia 's 
lemonade,  and  David  dropped  back  into  his  great 
chair  and  his  old  life  of  helpfulness,  and  'Thusia 
went  out  on  the  porch  and  smiled  at  Amy,  and 
they  all  had  lemonade. 

From  the  day  Mr.  Benton  entered  David's  door 
Mack  never  touched  the  liquor  again.  It  was  a 
year  before  Amy  felt  sure  enough  to  let  him  slip 
the  ring  on  her  finger  again,  but  it  was  as  if 
David's  sacrifice  had  worked  the  final  cure.  Per- 
haps it  did.  Perhaps  Mack,  hearing,  as  all  of  us 
did,  of  the  great  chance  David  had  put  aside, 
guessed  what  none  of  use  guessed — that  it  was 
for  him  David  remained  in  Eiverbank.  Perhaps 
that  was  why,  when  our  church  wanted  to  throw 
David  aside  in  his  old  age  like  a  worn-out  shoe, 
Mack  Graham  fought  so  hard  and  successfully  to 
secure  for  David  the  honorary  title  and  the  pit- 
tance. 


IX 
LUCILLE  HARDCOME 

IN  spite  of  all  his  efforts  David  could  not  shake 
off  his  pitiful  little  burden  of  debt.  After 
little  Alice  'Thusia  bore  him  two  more  chil- 
dren; they  died  before  the  month,  and  the  last 
left  'Thusia  an  invalid,  and  even  Doctor  Benedict 
lacked  the  skill  to  aid  her.  A  maid — hired  girl, 
we  called  them  in  Biverbank — became  a  necessity. 
The  church  did  what  it  thought  it  could,  gave 
David  a  few  more  dollars  yearly,  and  sympathized 
with  him. 

To  David  the  misfortune  of  'Thusia 's  invalid- 
ism  came  so  gradually  that  he  felt  the  weight  of 
it  bit  by  bit  and  not  as  a  single  great  catas- 
trophe. She  was  "not  herself"  and  then  "not 
quite  well"  and  then,  before  he  was  fully  aware, 
he  was  happy  when  she  had  a  "good"  day. 

'Thusia  did  not  complain.  With  her  whole 
heart  she  wished  she  was  well  and  strong,  but  she 
did  not  allow  her  troubles  to  sour  her  mind  or 
heart.  Mary  Derling  and  Eose  Hinch  came 
oftener  to  see  her.  'Thusia,  unable  to  do  her  own 
housework,  had  more  time  to  use  her  hands. 
Once,  when  some  petty  bill  worried  David,  she 
asked  if  she  could  not  take  in  sewing,  but  David 
.would  not  hear  of  it.  There  are  some  things  a 

123 


124  DOMINIE   DEAN 

dominie's  wife  cannot  be  allowed  to  do  to  help 
her  husband.  About  this  time  'Thusia  did  much 
sewing  for  the  poor,  who  probably  worried  less 
over  their  finances  than  David  worried  over  his, 
and  who,  as  likely  as  not,  criticized  the  stitches 
'Thusia  took  with  such  loving  good  will. 

David  was  then  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  in  the 
forties.  Always  slender,  he  reached  his  greatest 
weight  then;  a  little  later  worry  and  work  wore 
him  down  again.  If  his  kindly  cheerfulness  was 
at  all  forced  we  never  guessed  it.  He  was  the 
same  big-hearted,  friendly  Davy  he  had  always 
been,  better  because  more  mature.  As  a  preacher 
he  was  then  at  his  best.  It  was  at  this  time  Lucille 
Hardcome's  life  first  brought  her  in  touch  with 
David. 

Lucille  was  a  widow.  Seth  Hardcome  and  his 
wife,  Ellen,  had  long  since  left  our  church  in  a 
huff,  going  to  another  congregation  and  staying 
there.  Lucille  was,  in  some  sort,  Seth's  cousin-in- 
law,  however  that  may  be.  She  came  to  Eiver- 
bank  jingling  golden  bracelets  and  rustling  silken 
garments,  and  for  a  while  attended  services  with 
Seth  and  his  wife,  but  something  did  not  suit  her 
and  she  came  to  us.  We  counted  her  a  great 
acquisition,  for  she  had  taken  the  old  Ware  house 
on  the  hill — one  of  the  few  big  "mansions"  the 
town  boasted. 

In  a  few  weeks  after  her  arrival  Lucille  Hard- 
come  was  well  known  in  Biverbank.  She  had 
money.  Her  husband — and  Kiverbank  never  knew 
anything  else  about  him — had  been  an  old  man 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  125 

when  she  married  him.  He  had  died  within  the 
year.  No  doubt,  having  had  that  length  of  time 
in  which  to  become  acquainted  with  Lucille 's 
vagaries,  he  was  willing  enough  to  go  his  way. 
Within  a  month  after  she  had  installed  herself  in 
the  Ware  house  Lucille  had  her  ''hired  man" — 
they  were  not  called  "coachmen"  until  Lucille 
came  to  Eiverbank — and  a  fine  team  of  blacks. 
Her  low-hung  carriage  was  for  many  years  there- 
after a  common  sight  in  Eiverbank.  As  Lucille 
furnished  it  her  house  seemed  to  us  palatial  in 
its  elegance.  It  overpowered  those  who  saw  its 
interior ;  she  certainly  managed  to  get  everything 
into  the  rooms  that  they  would  hold — even  to  a 
grand  piano  and  a  huge  gilded  harp  on  which  she 
played  with  a  great  show  of  plump  arms.  All 
this  mass  of  furnishings  and  bric-a-brac  was  with- 
out taste,  but  to  Eiverbank  it  was  impressive. 
She  had,  I  remember,  a  huge  cuckoo  clock  she  had 
bought  in  Switzerland,  but  which,  being  of  un- 
varnished wood,  did  not  suit  her  taste,  so  she  had 
it  gilded,  and  hung  it  against  a  plaque  of  maroon 
velvet.  She  painted  a  little,  on  china,  on  velvet 
and  on  canvas,  and  her  rooms  soon  held  a  hundred 
examples  of  her  work,  all  bad.  Unless  you  were 
nearsighted,  however,  you  could  tell  her  roses 
from  her  landscapes  even  from  across  the  room, 
for  she  painted  large.  It  was  the  day  of  china 
plaques,  and  Lucille  had  the  largest  china  plaque 
in  Eiverbank.  It  was  three  feet  across.  It  was 
much  coveted. 
On  her  body  she  crowded  clothes  as  she  crowded 


126  DOMINIE   DEAN 

her  house  with  furnishings.  She  was  permanently 
overdressed.  She  was  of  impressive  size  and  she 
made  herself  larger  with  ruffles  and  frills.  Her 
hair  was  always  overdone — she  must  have  spent 
hours  on  it — and  if  a  single  hair  managed  to  exist 
unwaved,  uncurled  or  untwisted  it  was  not  Lu- 
cille 's  fault.  Yet  somehow  she  managed  to  make 
all  this  flummery  and  curliness  impressive ;  in  her 
heart  she  hoped  the  adjective  "queenly"  was  ap- 
plied to  her,  and  it  was!  That  was  before  the 
days  of  women's  clubs,  but  Lucille  had  picked 
up  quite  a  mass  of  impressive  misinformation  on 
books,  painting  and  like  subjects.  In  Riverbank 
she  was  able  to  make  this  tell. 

With  all  this  she  was  politely  overbearing. 
She  let  people  know  she  wanted  to  have  her  way 
— and  then  took  it!  From  the  first  she  pushed 
her  way  into  prominence  in  church  matters,  choos- 
ing the  Sunday  school  as  the  door.  The  Sunday 
school  fell  entirely  under  her  sway  in  a  very  short 
time,  partly  because  Mrs.  Prell,  the  wife  of  the 
superintendent,  had  social  ambitions,  and  urged 
Mr.  Prell  to  second  Lucille 's  wishes,  and  partly 
through  Lucille 's  mere  desire  to  lead.  She  began 
as  leader  of  the  simple  Sunday  school  music, 
standing  just  under  the  pulpit  and  beating  out  the 
time  of 

"Little   children,   little   children, 
Who  love  their  Redeemer — " 

with  an  arm  that  jingled  with  bracelets  as  her 
horses'  bridles  jingled  with  silver-plated  chains. 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  127 

Her  knowledge  of  music  was  slight — she  could 
just  about  pick  out  a  tune  on  her  harp  by  note — 
but  she  called  in  Professor  Schwerl  and  made  him 
pound  further  knowledge  into  her  head.  The  hot- 
tempered  old  German  did  it.  He  swore  at  her,  got 
red  in  the  face,  perspired.  It  was  like  pouring 
water  on  a  duck's  back,  but  some  drops  clung  be- 
tween the  feathers,  and  Lucille  knew  how  to  make 
a  drop  do  duty  as  a  pailful.  She  took  charge  of 
the  church  music,  reorganized  the  choir,  and  made 
the  church  think  the  new  music  was  much  better 
than  the  old. 

And  so  it  was.  She  added  Professor  Schwerl 
and  his  violin  to  the  organ.  Theoretically  this 
was  to  increase  the  volume  of  sweet  sounds;  in 
effect  it  made  old  Schwerl  the  hidden  director  of 
the  choir,  with  Lucille  as  the  jingling,  rustling 
figurehead.  So,  step  by  step,  Lucille  became  a 
real  power  in  the  church.  The  trustees  and  elders 
had  little  faith  in  her  wisdom ;  they  had  immense 
respect  for  her  ability  to  have  her  own  way, 
whether  it  was  right  or  wrong. 

Lucille,  having  won  her  place  in  the  church,  set 
about  creating  a  "salon."  Her  first  idea  was 
to  make  her  parlor  the  gathering  place  of  all  the 
wit  and  wisdom  of  Riverbank,  as  Madame  de 
Stael  made  her  salon  the  gathering  place  of  the 
wit  and  wisdom  of  Paris.  Perhaps  nothing  gives 
a  better  insight  into  the  character  of  Lucille  than 
this :  her  attempt  to  create  a  salon — of  which  she 
should  be  the  star — in  Riverbank.  She  soon 
found  that  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  our  small  Iowa 


128  DOMINIE   DEAN 

town  was  not  willing  to  sit  in  a  parlor  and  talk 
about  Michael  Angelo.  The  women  were  abashed 
before  the  culture  they  imagined  Lucille  to  have. 
The  men  simply  did  not  come.  Not  to  be  defeated, 
Lucille  organized  a  " literary  society."  By  in- 
cluding only  a  few  of  her  church  acquaintances 
she  gave  the  suggestion  that  the  organization  was 
''exclusive."  By  setting  as  the  first  topic  the 
poems  of  Matthew  Arnold — then  hardly  heard  of 
in  Biverbank — she  suggested  that  the  society  was 
to  be  erudite.  The  combination  did  all  she  had 
hoped.  Admission  to  Lucille 's  literary  society 
became  Biverbank 's  most  prized  social  plum. 

Few  in  Biverbank  had  any  real  affection  for 
Lucille,  but  affection  was  not  what  she  sought. 
She  wanted  prominence  and  power,  and  even  the 
men  who  had  scorned  her  salon  idea  soon  found 
she  had  become,  in  some  mysterious  way,  an  "in- 
fluence." The  State  senator,  when  he  came  to 
Biverbank,  always  "put  up"  at  Lucille 's  mansion 
instead  of  at  a  hotel  as  formerly.  When  the  men 
of  the  town  wished  signatures  to  a  petition,  or 
money  subscriptions  to  any  promotion  scheme — 
such  as  the  new  street  railway — the  first  thought 
was:  "Get  Lucille  Hardcome  to  take  it  up;  she'll 
put  it  through."  In  such  affairs  she  did  not 
bother  with  the  lesser  names;  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  of  the  "big"  men  she  would  write  on  her 
list  and  for  a  few  days  her  blacks  and  her  low- 
hung  carriage  would  be  seen  standing  in  front  of 
prominent  doors,  and  Lucille  would  have  secured 
all,  or  nearly  all,  the  signatures  she  sought. 


LUCILLE   HARDCOME  129 

At  first  Lucille  paid  little  attention  to  David. 
She  treated  him  much  as  she  treated  the  color- 
less Mr.  Prell,  our  Sunday  school  superintendent : 
as  if  he  were  a  useful  but  unimportant  church  at- 
tachment, but  otherwise  not  amounting  to  much. 
It  was  not  until  the  affair  of  the  church  organist 
showed  her  that  David  was  a  worthy  antagonist 
that  Lucille  thought  of  David  as  other  than  a  sort 
of  elevated  hired  man. 

Far  back  in  the  days  when  David  came  to  Kiver- 
bank,  Miss  Hurley  (Miss  Jane  Hurley,  not  Miss 
Mary)  had  volunteered  to  play  the  organ  when 
Mrs.  Dougal  gave  it  up  because  of  the  coming 
of  the  twins.  That  must  have  been  before  the 
war;  and  the  organ  was  a  queer  little  box  of  a 
thing  that  could  be  carried  about  with  little 
trouble.  It  was  hardly  better  than  a  pitch  pipe. 
It  served  to  set  the  congregation  on  (or  off)  the 
key,  and  was  immediately  lost  in  the  rough  bass 
and  shrill  treble  of  the  congregational  vocal  ef- 
forts. Later,  when  the  Hardcomes  came  to  Eiver- 
bank  and  Ellen  Hardcome's  really  excellent 
soprano  suggested  a  quartet  choir,  the  "new" 
organ  had  been  bought.  It  was  thought  to  be  a 
splendid  instrument.  In  appearance  it  was  a 
sublimated  parlor  organ,  a  black  walnut  affair 
that  had  Gothic  aspirations  and  arose  in  unac- 
countable spires  and  points.  We  Presbyterians 
were  properly  proud  of  it.  With  our  choir  of 
four,  our  new  organ  and  Miss  Hurley  learning  a 
new  voluntary  or  offertory  every  month  or  so, 
we  felt  we  had  reached  the  acme  in  music.  We 


130  DOMINIE   DEAN 

used  to  gather  around  Miss  Hurley  after  one  of 
her  new  " pieces"  and  congratulate  her,  quite  as 
we  gathered  around  David  and  congratulated  him 
when  he  gave  us  a  sermon  we  liked  especially 
well. 

The  Episcopalians  gave  us  our  first  shock  when 
they  built  their  little  church — spireless,  indeed, 
so  that  their  bell  had  to  be  set  on  a  scaffold  in  the 
back  yard — but  with  a  pipe  organ  actually  built 
into  the  church.  We  figured  that  seven,  at  least, 
of  our  congregation  went  over  to  the  Episco- 
palians on  account  of  the  pipe  organ.  The  Metho- 
dists were  but  a  year  or  two  later.  I  do  not  re- 
member whether  the  Congregationalists  were  a 
year  before  or  a  year  after  the  Methodists,  but 
the  net  result  was  that  we  Presbyterians  and  the 
United  Brethren  were  the  last  to  lag  along,  and 
the  United  Brethren  had  neither  our  size  nor 
wealth.  Not  that  our  wealth  was  much  to  brag  of. 

After  her  typhoid  Ellen  Hardcome's  voice 
broke — the  disease  " settled  in  her  throat,"  as  we 
said  then — and  she  stepped  out  of  the  choir  to 
make  way  for  little  Mollie  Mitchell,  who  sang  like 
a  bird  and  had  a  disposition  like  one  of  Satan's 
imps.  Hardly  had  Lucille  Hardcome  taken 
charge  of  our  church  music  than  she  began  her 
campaign  for  a  pipe  organ.  By  that  time  the 
"new"  organ  was  the  "old"  organ  and  actually 
worse  than  the  old  "old"  organ  had  ever  been. 
It  was  in  the  habit  of  emitting  occasional 
uncalled-for  groans  and  squeaks  and  at  times  all 
its  efforts  were  accompanied  by  a  growl  like  the 


LUCILLE   HARDCOME  131 

drone  of  a  bagpipe.  The  blind  piano  tuner  had 
long  since  refused  to  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  it,  and  Merkle,  the  local  gun  and  lock  smith, 
tinkered  it  nearly  every  week.  It  was  comical  to 
see  old  Schwerl  roll  his  eyes  in  agony  as  he  played 
his  violin  beside  it. 

As  Merkle  said,  repairing  musical  instruments 
was  not  his  business,  and  he  had  to  "study  her  up 
from  the  ground."  He  did  his  best,  but  probably 
the  logic  of  his  repair  work  was  based  on  a  wrong 
premise.  We  never  knew,  when  Merkle  entered 
the  church  on  a  Saturday  to  correct  the  trouble 
that  evolved  during  Friday  night's  choir  prac- 
tice, what  the  old  black  walnut  monstrosity  would 
do  on  Sunday. 

All  through  this  period,  as  through  her  strug- 
gles with  the  old  "old"  organ,  Miss  Hurley 
labored  patiently.  "I  couldn't  do  so  and  so," 
old  Merkle  used  to  tell  her,  ' '  so  you  want  to  look 
out  and  not  do  so  and  so."  Perhaps  it  meant  she 
must  pump  with  one  foot,  or  not  touch  some  three 
or  four  of  the  "stops."  She  did  her  best  and, 
but  for  the  rankling  thought  that  the  other 
churches  were  listening  to  glorious  pipe  organ 
strains,  I  dare  say  we  would  have  been  satisfied 
well  enough.  I  always  loved  to  see  the  gentle 
little  lady  seat  herself  on  the  narrow  bench,  ar- 
range her  skirts,  place  her  music  on  the  rack  and 
then  look  up  to  catch  the  back  of  Dominie  Dean's 
curly-haired  head  in  her  little  mirror. 

When  Lucille  Hardcome  announced  that  she 
just  couldn't  stand  the  squeaky  old  organ  any 


132  DOMINIE    DEAN 

longer  and  that  the  church  must  have  a  pipe  organ 
if  she  had  to  work  night  and  day  for  it,  we  knew 
the  church  would  have  a  pipe  organ,  for  Lucille 
— as  a  rule — got  whatever  she  set  her  heart  on. 

Lucille 's  announcement  threw  little  Miss  Jane 
into  a  flutter  of  excitement.  It  was  as  if  someone 
gave  a  gray  wren  a  thimbleful  of  champagne. 
Miss  Jane  was  all  chirps  of  joy  and  tremblings 
of  the  hand.  She  hardly  knew  whether  to  be 
jauntily  joyous  or  crushed  with  fear.  Her  eyes 
were  unwontedly  bright,  and  her  cheeks,  which 
had  not  glowed  for  years,  burned  red.  The  very 
Friday  night  that  Lucille  condemned  the  old  organ 
and  proclaimed  a  new  one  Miss  Jane,  walking 
beside  David  Dean  (although  she  felt  more  like 
skipping  for  joy) ,  asked  David  a  daring  question. 

" Won't  it  be  wonderful  to  have  a  real  organ — 
a  pipe  organ!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  means  so 
much  in  the  musical  service,  Mr.  Dean.  I  try  to 
make  the  old  organ  praise  the  Lord  but — of  course 
I  don't  mean  anything  I  shouldn't — but  some- 
times I  think  there  is  no  praise  left  in  the  old 
thing !  I  can  do  so  much  more  if  we  have  a  pipe 
organ  I" 

"I  imagine  you  sometimes  think  the  Old  Harry 
is  in  the  old  walnut  case,  Miss  Jane,"  said  David. 

"Oh,  I  would  never  think  that!"  cried  Miss 
Jane,  and  then  she  laughed  a  shamed  little  laugh. 
"That  is  just  what  sister  Mary  said  last  Sunday 
when"  the  bass  growled  so!" 

She  walked  a  few  yards  in  silence,  nerving  her- 
self to  ask  the  question. 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  133 

"Mr.  Dean,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  it  would 
be  all  right — do  you  think  it  would  be  proper — 
if  I  asked  Mademoiselle  Moran  to  give  me  a  few 
lessons?" 

She  almost  held  her  breath  waiting  for  David's 
answer.  It  seemed  to  her,  after  the  question 
had  left  her  mouth,  that  it  had  been  a  bold,  almost 
brazen,  thing  to  ask  David.  It  seemed  almost 
shameful  to  ask  the  dominie  such  a  question,  for, 
you  understand,  Mademoiselle  Moran  was  a 
Catholic,  and  not  only  a  Catholic  but  the  niece  of 
Father  Moran,  the  priest,  and  his  housekeeper, 
and  the  organist  of  St.  Bridget's.  The  lessons 
would  mean  that  Miss  Jane  must  go  to  St. 
Bridget's ;  they  would  be  given  on  the  great  organ 
there,  with  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  and  of  St. 
Bridget,  and  the  gaunt  crucifix,  and  the  pictures 
portraying  the  Stations  of  the  Cross,  and  the  con- 
fessionals, and  all  else,  close  at  hand.  To  ask 
the  dominie  if  one  might  voluntarily  venture  into 
the  midst  of  all  that ! 

"Have  you  spoken  to  her  yet?"  asked  David, 
surprisingly  unshocked. 

"No!  Oh,  no!  I  would  not  until  I  had  asked 
you,  of  course!"  gasped  Miss  Jane.  "Why,  I 
haven't  had  time!  I  only  knew  we  were  going 
to  have  a  pipe  organ  this  evening!" 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  let  me  arrange  it," 
said  David.  "I  think  perhaps  Doctor  Benedict 
can  manage  it,  although  Mademoiselle  is  giving 
up  her  pupils,  Benedict  says.  Father  Moran  is 
worried  about  her  health;  Benedict  says  Made- 


134  DOMINIE   DEAN 

moiselle  is  trying  to  do  too  much.  She  is  giving 
up  all  but  her  two  or  three  most  promising  pupils. 
But  in  a  case  like  this — Shall  I  speak  to  Bene- 
dict?" 

"Oh,  will  you?  Will  you?"  cried  little  Miss 
Jane  ecstatically.  "Oh,  if  you  will!" 

David  smiled  in  the  darkness.  But  a  day  or 
two  before,  when  Doc  Benedict  had  dropped  into 
the  manse  to  sit  awhile  in  David's  study  under 
the  motto  "Keep  an  even  mind  under  all  circum- 
stances," David  had  scolded  him  whimsically  for 
unfaithfulness. 

"I  don't  see  you  once  in  a  blue  moon  any  more, 
Benedict,"  he  had  said.  "I  grow  stale  for  some- 
one to  wrangle  with.  You're  a  false  and  fickle 
friend.  Who  is  your  latest  passion?  Father 
Moran?" 

"Don't  you  say  anything  against  Father 
Moran!"  Benedict  threatened.  "It's  a  pity 
you're  not  both  Presbyterians,  or  both  Catholics, 
Davy.  You'd  love  each  other.  You'd  have  some 
beautiful  fights.  I  can't  hold  my  own  against 
him;  he's  too  much  for  me.  He's  a  fine  old  man, 
Davy,"  he  added,  and  then,  smiling,  "and  he 
knows  good  sherry  and  good  cigars." 

"What  do  you  talk  about,  over  your  good 
sherry  and  good  cigars?"  asked  David. 

"Last  night,"  said  Benedict,  "it  was  music. 
He  had  me  there,  Davy.  No  man  has  a  right  to 
know  as  much  about  as  many  things  as  Father 
Moran  knows.  Of  course,  if  I  had  a  niece  like 
Mademoiselle  I  might  know  about  Beethoven  and 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  135 

Chopin  and  all  those  fellows.  He  scolded  me 
about  our  church  music.  I  went  for  him,  of 
course,  on  that;  bragged  about  our  choir.  'Ah, 
yes!'  he  smiled  through  that  thick,  brown  beard 
of  his ; '  and  I  'ave  heard  of  your  organ ! '  He  gave 
me  an  imitation  of  it  through  his  nose.  Then  he 
called  Mademoiselle  and  took  me  into  the  church 
and  made  her  play  a  thing  or  two — an  'Elevation' 
and  an  'Ave  Maria.'  He  had  me,  all  right,  Davy. 
It  was  holy  music,  Davy!" 

So  David,  remembering,  spoke  to  Benedict 
about  Miss  Jane's  desire,  and  Benedict  spoke  to 
Father  Moran.  The  old  doctor  knew  just  how  to 
handle  the  good-natured  priest,  whose  eyes  were 
deep  in  crow's-feet  from  countless  quizzical 
smiles. 

"Why,  Father,  you  yourself  were  howling  and 
complaining  about  our  church  music  the  other 
night !  Scolding  me,  you  were.  And  now  I  give 
you  a  chance  to  better  the  thing  you  scolded  me 
about,  and  you  hesitate!  Oh,  tut!  about  Made- 
moiselle's health!  Let  her  give  up  another  of 
her  fancy,  arts-and-graces  pupils.  I  prescribe 
Miss  Hurley  for  Mademoiselle's  health.  And 
don't  you  dare  go  against  her  physician's 
orders!" 

Father  Moran  chuckled  in  his  black  beard,  and 
his  eyes  twinkled.  He  loved  to  have  anyone  pre- 
tend to  bulldoze  him;  he  was  a  beloved  autocrat 
among  his  own  people. 

"You're  afraid!"  declared  Benedict.  "You're 
afraid  that  when  we  get  our  new  organ  and  Miss 


136  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Hurley  learns  to  play  it  your  Mademoiselle  will 
be  overshadowed.  We'll  show  you!" 

" Afraid!"  chuckled  Father  Moran.  "You 
heard  Mademoiselle  play,  and  you  say  I  am 
afraid!  Bon!  Ex-cellent!  Come,  we  will  inter- 
view Mademoiselle  I" 

So  it  was  arranged.  Mademoiselle  would  take 
no  remuneration.  She  patted  little  Miss  Hurley 
on  the  thin  shoulder  and  smiled,  but  she  would 
not  hear  of  payment. 

"N',  no!"  she  declared.  "I  teach  you  be- 
cause I  like  you,  be-cause  I  like  all  praise  music 
shall  be  good  music.  N ',  no !  We  will  not  think 
about  money;  we  will  think  about  great,  grand 
music.  You  will  be  my  leetle  St.  Cecilia;  yes?" 

Not  until  she  had  consulted  David,  and  had 
been  assured  that  accepting  such  a  favor  from  the 
niece  of  the  priest  was  not  at  all  wrong,  would 
Miss  Hurley  agree.  Then  the  lessons  began,  Miss 
Hurley  always  "my  leetle  St.  Cecilia"  to  Made- 
moiselle. They  were  a  strongly  contrasted  pair : 
Mademoiselle  Moran  stout,  black-haired,  with 
powerful  arms  and  fingers;  Miss  Hurley  a  mere 
wisp  of  humanity,  hair  already  gray,  and  with 
scarce  strength  to  handle  the  stops  and  keys. 

When  first  she  entered  the  huge  St.  Bridget's 
Miss  Hurley  cringed,  as  if  she  entered  a  for- 
bidden place.  The  great  stained  windows  per- 
mitted but  little  light  to  enter;  here  and  there 
some  woman  knelt  low  on  the  floor,  crossing  her- 
self. Mademoiselle  walked  to  the  organ  loft  with 
a  brisk,  businesslike  tread  and  Miss  Hurley  fol- 


LUCILLE   HARDCOME  137 

lowed  her  timidly.  From  somewhere  Father 
Moran  appeared,  smiling,  and  patted  Miss 
Hurley's  shoulder.  No  man  had  patted  Miss 
Hurley's  shoulder  for  many  years,  but  she  was 
far  from  resenting  it.  It  was  like  a  good  wish. 
Then  Mademoiselle  reached  up  and  drew  the  soft 
green  curtains  across  the  front  of  the  organ  loft 
and  lo !  they  were  alone.  The  lesson  began. 

It  needed  but  that  one  first  lesson  to  tell  Made- 
moiselle that  her  "leetle  St.  Cecilia"  would  never 
play  " great,  grand  music"  on  a  large  pipe  organ. 
It  was  as  if  you  were  to  undertake  to  teach  a 
child  trigonometry  and  discovered  he  did  not 
know  the  multiplication  table  beyond  seven  times 
five.  Miss  Hurley  hardly  knew  the  rudiments  of 
music ;  harmony,  thoroughbass  and  all  the  deeper 
things,  that  Mademoiselle  had  learned  so  long 
ago  that  they  were  part  of  her  nature  now,  were 
absolute  Greek  to  Miss  Hurley.  But,  worse  than 
all  this,  Miss  Hurley  had  not  the  physique  of  an 
organist.  She  was  physically  inadequate. 

Such  news  invariably  leaks  out.  Long  before 
Lucille  Hardcome  had  managed  to  coax  the  pipe 
organ  out  of  Sam  Wiggett's  purse  it  was  known 
that  Miss  Hurley  was  "taking  lessons"  from 
Mademoiselle  and  that  she  was  not  strong  enough 
to  play  a  pipe  organ  properly.  For  her  part, 
had  Miss  Hurley  been  any  other  person,  Made- 
moiselle would  have  thrown  up  her  hands  and 
turned  her  back  on  the  impossible  task,  but  she 
liked  Miss  Jane  sincerely.  I  think  she  loved  the 
little  old  maid.  It  must  be  remembered  that  St. 


138  DOMINIE   DEAN 

Bridget's  was  Irish  and  in  those  days  many  of 
the  Irish  in  Biverbank  were  fresh  from  the  peat 
bogs  and  potato  fields,  and  Mademoiselle,  before^ 
coming  to  care  for  her  uncle's  house,  had  lived 
in  the  midst  of  France 's  best.  It  is  no  wonder  she 
craved  even  such  crumbs  of  culture  as  Miss 
Hurley  had  gathered  or  that  she  loved  the  little 
woman.  In  return  she  gave  Miss  Jane  all  she 
could. 

There  were  intricacies  of  stops  and  keys,  foot 
pedaling  and  fingering,  that  must  be  explained 
and  practiced,  but  Mademoiselle  early  told  Miss 
Hurley : 

' '  St.  Cecilia,  you  are  not,  remembair,  the  grand 
organist ;  you  are  the  sweet  organist.  For  me ' ' — 
she  made  the  organ  boom  with  a  tumult  of  sound 
— "for  me,  yes!  I  am  beeg  and  strong.  But,  for 
you" — she  played  some  deliciously  dainty  bit — 
"because  you  are  gentle  and  sweet!" 

And  all  the  while  Miss  Jane  and  Mademoiselle 
were  having  their  little  love  affair  and  their  strug- 
gles with  stops  and  pedals  and  keys,  behind  the 
green  curtain  of  St.  Bridget's  organ  loft,  Lucille 
Hardcome  was  bringing  all  her  diplomacy  to  bear 
against  old  Sam  Wiggett's  pocket.  For  her  own 
part  she  made  a  direct  assault:  "Mr.  Wiggett, 
you're  going  to  give  us  a  pipe  organ!"  She  kept 
this  up  day  in  and  day  out:  "Have  you  decided 
to  give  us  that  pipe  organ?"  and,  "I  haven't  seen 
the  pipe  organ  you  are  going  to  give  us.  Where 
is  it?"  Old  Wiggett,  who  liked  Lucille,  chuckled. 
Perhaps  he  knew  from  the  first  that  he  would  give 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  139 

the  organ.  Lucille  set  his  daughter,  Mary 
Derling,  to  coaxing,  and  primed  unsuspecting  old 
ladies  to  speak  to  Mr.  Wiggett  as  if  the  organ 
was  a  certainty.  She  had  Mort  Walsh,  the  archi- 
tect, prepare  a  plan  for  taking  out  a  portion  of 
the  rear  wall  of  the  church  without  disturbing  the 
regular  services.  She  took  a  group  of  ladies  to 
Derlingport  to  hear  the  pipe  organ  in  the  Presby- 
terian Church  there.  They  returned  enthusiastic 
advocates  of  an  organ  for  our  church,  and  Lucille, 
knowing  Sam  Wiggett,  and  sure  the  old  fellow 
would  love  to  have  his  name  attached  forever  to 
some  one  big  thing  in  the  church,  set  the  ladies  to 
raising  money  for  a  pipe  organ.  This  was  a  hope- 
less task  and  Lucille  knew  it.  It  was  done  to 
frighten  Mr.  Wiggett  and  make  him  hurry  with 
his  gift,  lest  he  lose  the  opportunity. 

One  result  of  the  trip  to  Derlingport  can  be 
stated  in  the  words  of  Mrs.  Peter  Minch,  uttered 
as  she  came  down  the  steps  of  the  Derlingport 
church : 

"Well,  Lucille,  if  we  have  an  organ  like  that 
we  will  have  to  have  more  of  an  organist  than 
Jane  Hurley!" 

" Of  course!"  Lucille  had  said.  "Jane  Hurley 
and  a  pipe  organ  would  be  ridiculous!" 

So  this  was  added  to  David's  worries.  The 
choir  of  four  and  Lucille — as  musical  dictator 
of  the  church — spoke  to  David  almost  immediately 
about  the  retirement  of  Miss  Hurley.  It  would 
be  better  to  say,  perhaps,  that  they  spoke  to  him 
about  the  manner  in  which  money  could  be  raised 


140  DOMINIE   DEAN 

to  pay  a  satisfactory  organist.  They  did  not 
consider  Miss  Hurley  as  a  possibility  at  all.  She 
had  done  well  enough  with  the  old  organ,  and  it 
had  been  pleasant  for  her,  and  well  for  the  church, 
that  she  had  been  permitted  to  play  the  squeaky 
old  instrument  without  pay,  but  she  simply  would 
not  do  when  it  came  to  the  new  organ.  David 
listened,  his  head  resting  in  his  hand  and  one 
long  finger  touching  his  temple.  He  saw  at  once 
that  a  quarrel  was  in  the  air. 

"You  did  not  know,"  he  asked,  "that  Miss 
Hurley  has  been  taking  lessons  from  Made- 
moiselle Moran  for  a  month  or  more?" 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Lucille.  "That's  nonsense! 
If  she  wants  to  play  '  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers ' 
for  the  Sunday  school,  I  don't  object;  but  church 
music!  We  have  heard  the  organist  at  Derling- 
port!" 

"I  think,"  said  David,  "that  for  a  while  at 
least,  if  we  get  a  pipe  organ,  Miss  Hurley  should 
be  our  organist.  She  is  looking  forward  to  it. 
She  is  taking  lessons  with  that  in  view!" 

Lucille  said  nothing,  but  in  her  eyes  David  saw 
the  resolve  to  be  rid  of  Miss  Hurley. 

"Miss  Jane  understands,  I  think,"  David  said, 
"that  she  is  to  continue  as  our  organist.  At  no 
advance  in  salary,"  he  smiled. 

Lucille  closed  her  mouth  firmly.  As  clearly  as 
if  she  had  spoken,  David  read  in  her  face :  ' '  Well, 
if  that's  who  is  to  play  the  pipe  organ,  I  shan't 
try  to  get  one!"  He  did  not  wait  for  her  to 
speak. 


LUCILLE    HARDCOME  141 

"I  feel/'  he  said,  "that  if  Miss  Hurley  is  to 
be  thrown  out  after  so  many  years  of  patient 
and  faithful  struggling  with  the  miserable  instru- 
ments she  has  had  to  do  with,  it  would  be  better 
to  let  the  whole  idea  of  having  a  pipe  organ  drop. 
At  any  rate,  the  chance  of  getting  one  seems 
small." 

"Oh,  we're  going  to  have  one!"  exclaimed 
Lucille,  caught  in  the  trap  he  had  prepared  for 
her  spirit  of  opposition.  "I  get  what  I  go  after, 
Mr.  Dean." 


LUCILLE  DISCOVERS  DAVID 

IT  was  no  new  thing  for  David  to  feel  the  op- 
position of  his  choir;  indeed,  is  not  the  atti- 
tude of  minister  and  choir  in  many  churches 
usually  that  of  armed  neutrality?  How  many 
ministers  would  drop  dead  if  all  the  bitterness 
that  is  put  into  some  anthems  could  kill!  To 
the  minister  the  choir  is  often  a  body  of  unruly 
artistic  temperaments  bent  on  mere  secular  dis- 
play of  its  musical  talents ;  to  the  choir  the  minis- 
ter is  a  crass  utilitarian,  ignorant  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  good  music,  and  stubbornly  insisting  that 
the  musical  program  for  each  day  shall  be 
twisted  to  illustrate  some  point  in  his  sermon. 
To  some  ministers  it  has  seemed  that  eternal 
vigilance  alone  prevented  the  choir  from  singing 
the  latest  "Gem  from  Comic  Opera";  some  choirs 
have  felt  that  unless  they  battled  strenuously  they 
would  be  tied  down  to  "Old  Hundred"  and 
"Blest  Be  the  Tie  that  Binds,"  by  a  minister  who 
did  not  know  one  note  from  another.  How  many 
ministers  have,  early  in  November,  begun  to  dread 
the  inevitable  quarrel  over  the  choice  of  Christmas 
music ! 

Lucille  Hardcome  was  a  large  woman  and  much 
given  to  violent  colors,  but,  to  do  her  justice,  she 

142 


LUCILLE   DISCOVERS   DAVID          143 

managed  them  with  a  chic  that  put  them  above 
any  question  of  mere  good  taste.  She  clashed  a 
green  and  purple  together,  and  evolved  something 
that  was  "style"  and  that  had  to  be  recognized 
as  ' '  style. "  In  a  day  when  women  were  wearing 
gray  and  black  striped  silks,  as  they  were  then, 
Lucille  would  concoct  with  her  dressmaker  some- 
thing in  orange  and  black,  throw  in  a  bow  or  two 
of  cerulean  blue,  and  appear  well  dressed.  She 
could  wear  a  dozen  jangling  bracelets  on  her 
plump  arm  and  leave  the  impression  that  she  was 
not  overornamented,  but  ultrafashionable.  You 
would  have  said,  to  see  her  among  the  less  vio- 
lently garbed  women  of  the  church,  that  she  was 
one  who  would  win  only  by  bold  thrusts.  On  the 
contrary,  she  could  be  a  wily  diplomatist. 

Just  as  old  Sam  Wiggett  received  from  unex- 
pected quarters  questions  regarding  the  pipe 
organ,  so  David  began  to  hear  questions  regard- 
ing the  organist.  Some  asked  him  eagerly  if  it 
were  true  an  organist  was  to  be  brought  from 
Chicago;  some  asked  if  it  were  true  that  Miss 
Hurley  had  refused  to  play  the  big  new  organ. 
Presently  he  heard  the  name  of  the  young  man 
who  was  to  be  brought  from  Chicago  to  supplant 
Miss  Hurley;  then  that  the  young  man  was  to 
have  a  position  in  Sam  Wiggett 's  office  if  he 
couldn't  get  into  Schultz'  music  store. 

It  was  soon  after  the  arrangements  for  the 
purchase  of  the  pipe  organ  had  been  made  (Sam 
Wiggett  giving  in  at  last)  that  Miss  Jane  herself 
came  to  David.  She  had  been  ill  two  days,  con- 


144  DOMINIE   DEAN 

fined  to  her  bed,  although  she  did  not  tell  David 
so.  Partly,  no  doubt,  her  little  breakdown  had 
come  because  of  the  overhard  work  she  was 
doing  with  Mademoiselle,  but  mainly  it  had  been 
the  shock  of  the  word  that  she  was  to  be  pushed 
aside.  Her  disappointment  had  been  overwhelm- 
ing, for  little  Miss  Jane  had  coveted  with  all  her 
heart  the  joy  of  playing  the  great,  new  organ. 
The  news  that  another  was  to  be  organist  came 
like  the  blow  of  a  brutal  fist  between  her  eyes, 
and  she  went  down.  For  two  days  she  fought 
against  what  she  felt  must  be  her  great  selfish- 
ness and  then,  still  weak  but  ready  to  do  what  she 
felt  was  her  duty,  she  went  to  David.  "Thusia, 
herself  weak,  led  her  to  David's  study  door  and 
left  her  there.  David  let  her  enter  and  closed  the 
door  after  her.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her.  The 
light  fell  on  her  face,  and  as  he  saw  the  marks 
her  struggle  had  left  there  he  threw  up  his  head 
and  drew  a  deep  breath.  All  the  fight  there  was  in 
him  surged  up,  and  he  cast  his  eyes  at  the  spat- 
ter-work motto  above  his  desk  before  he  dared 
speak.  His  gray  eyes  glowed  cold  fire. 

"Not  on  your  own  account,  but  on  mine,"  he 
said,  "you  will  go  on  just  as  you  have  been  going, 
Miss  Jane  Hurley!  You  are  making  some  prog- 
ress under  Mademoiselle  Moran?" 

"Why — yes — yes — "  Miss  Jane  stammered, 
twisting  her  handkerchief,  "but — " 

"Then  you  are  all  the  organist  the  church 
wants  or  needs  or  shall  have,  unless  it  wants  and 


LUCILLE   DISCOVERS   DAVID          145 

needs  and  has  a  new  dominie !  I  dare  say  we  can 
manage  to  praise  the  Lord  with  your  fingers  and 
soul  quite  as  well  as  with  Samuel  Wiggett's  money 
and  Lucille  Hardcome's  ambition." 

'  *  But  I  can 't ! ' '  said  Miss  Jane.  ' '  I  can 't,  when 
they  all  want  a  new  organist;  they'll  hate  me. 
You  don't  know,  Mr.  Dean,  what  it  would  be  to 
sit  there  and  feel  their  hate  against  my  back. 
You'll  think  I'm  foolish,  but  if  I  could  face  them 
it  would  be  different;  but  to  sit  there  and  try  to 
play  when  everyone  in  the  church  doesn't  want 
me,  and  to  feel  every  eye  behind  me  hostile!  I 
can't,  Mr.  Dean!" 

David  opened  the  study  door. 

1 '  'Thusia ! "  he  called,  and  his  wife  answered. 

"Who  do  you  want  as  your  organist?"  he  called. 

"Why,  Miss  Jane,  of  course!"  'Thusia  replied. 

"There's  one  who  will  not  look  hatred  at  your 
back,"  said  David.  "And  I'm  two.  And  I  can 
take  little  Roger  to  church,  and  that  will  be  three. 
And  I  dare  say  we  can  find  others.  'Thusia 
should  know.  Who  does  Mrs.  Merriwether  want, 
Thusia?"  he  called. 

"She  wants  Miss  Jane,"  said  'Thusia  promptly. 
They  joined  'Thusia  where  she  lay  on  her  couch. 
"Are  you  worried  about  what  Lucille  has  been 
suggesting,  Miss  Hurley?  Dear  me!  you  mustn't 
let  anything  like  that  worry  you !  Why,  someone 
always  wants  something  else.  If  David  and  I 
worried  about  what  everyone  wants  we  would  do 
nothing  but  worry!" 


146  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"But  Mr.  Wiggett  is  giving  the  organ,  and 
Lucille  really  got  it  for  the  church — "  Miss 
Hurley  faltered. 

"I  know,"  said  'Thusia,  "but  David  wants  you 
to  be  the  organist.  That  is  both  sides  and  the 
middle  of  the  matter  for  me.  David  always  knows 
what  is  best ! ' ' 

"So,  you  see,"  said  David  smiling,  "we've  had 
our  little  tempest  in  a  teapot  for  nothing. 
'Thusia,  have  you  a  teapot  with  something  other 
than  tempests  in  it?  A  cup  might  refresh  Miss 
Jane." 

Her  talk  with  'Thusia  did  more  than  anything 
David  could  have  said,  perhaps,  to  convince  Miss 
Jane  that  she  need  not  bury  her  fond  desire,  for 
'Thusia  could  talk  as  one  woman  talks  to  another. 
As  she  talked  Miss  Jane  saw  things  as  they  were, 
the  great  majority  of  the  congregation  wishing  to 
retain  Miss  Jane,  with  but  a  few  of  the  richer 
and  display-loving  wanting  anything  else.  'Thusia 
was  able  to  convey  this  without  saying  it.  She 
made  it  felt,  as  a  woman  can  when  she  chooses. 
A  name  here,  a  name  there,  an  incidental  men- 
tion of  Lucille 's  unfortunate  attempt  to  put  her 
coachman  in  livery,  and  Miss  Jane  saw  the 
church  as  it  was — a  few  moneyed  "pushers"  and 
the  body  of  silent,  sincere  worshipers.  More  than 
all  else  'Thusia  herself  seemed  to  embody  the 
spirit  of  the  congregation.  It  suddenly  occurred 
to  Miss  Jane  that,  after  all,  the  quiet  people 
who  were  her  friends  were  the  real  church.  And 
this  was  true.  She  left  quite  at  peace  with  the 


LUCILLE    DISCOVERS    DAVID          147 

idea  that  she  was  to  play  the  new  organ  when  it 
was  installed. 

And  then  David  began  his  fight  for  Miss  Jane, 
which  became  a  fight  against  Lucille  Hardcome. 
Lucille  fought  her  battle  well,  but  the  odds  were 
against  her.  As  against  the  few  who  wanted  a 
hired  organist  at  any  price  there  were  an  equal 
few  who  still  questioned  the  propriety  of  having 
a  new  organ  at  all.  Against  her  were  still  others 
who  would  have  been  with  her  had  she  and  her 
warmest  supporters  not  so  often  tried  to  "run" 
everything  connected  with  the  church,  but  the 
overwhelming  sentiment  was  that  as  Miss  Jane 
was  " taking  lessons"  from  the  best  organist  in 
Riverbank,  and  as  Miss  Jane  had  always  been 
organist,  and  as  hiring  one  would  be  an  added 
expense,  Miss  Jane  ought  to  stay,  at  least  until 
it  was  quite  evident  that  she  would  not  do  at  all. 
Even  Professor  Schwerl  told  David,  albeit 
secretly,  that  he  was  for  Miss  Jane,  his  theory 
being  that  it  was  better  to  hear  a  canary  bird 
pipe  prettily  than  to  listen  to  any  half-baked  vir- 
tuoso Lucille  was  likely  to  secure. 

Thus  it  came  to  the  night  before  the  day  when 
Professor  Hedden,  coming  from  a  great  city,  was 
to  introduce  the  congregation  to  its  new  organ. 
That  afternoon  Mademoiselle  had  given  Miss 
Jane  a  final  lesson — final  with  the  promise  of 
more  later — and  had  kissed  her  cheek.  Father 
Moran  had  patted  her  shoulder,  too,  wishing  her, 
in  his  quaint  English,  good  success,  offering  her  a 
glass  of  sherry,  which  of  course  she  declined,  mak- 


148  DOMINIE   DEAN 

ing  him  laugh  joyously  as  he  always  did  at  "  these 
Peelgrims  Fathers,"  as  he  good-naturedly  called 
those  he  considered  puritanical.  Miss  Jane,  com- 
ing straight  from  St.  Bridget's,  had  entered  the 
church  and  had  tried  the  great,  new,  splendid 
organ.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  it ;  she  trembled 
when  she  pulled  out  the  first  stops  and  heard  the 
first  notes  answer  her  fingers  on  the  keys.  Then 
she  grew  bolder;  she  tried  a  simple  hymn  and 
forgot  herself,  and  by  the  time  twilight  came  she 
was  not  afraid  at  all.  She  left  the  church  uplifted 
and  happy  of  heart.  She  told  Miss  Mary,  when 
she  reached  home,  that  she  believed  she  would 
do  quite  well. 

The  evening  trial  left  her  in  trembling  fear 
again.  It  was  well  enough  to  assure  herself  that 
no  one  in  America  could  play  as  Professor  Hed- 
den  played;  that  he  was  our  one  great  master; 
but  she  feared  what  would  be  thought  of  her  play- 
ing after  the  congregation  had  had  such  music 
as  Professor  Hedden's  as  a  first  taste. 

A  dozen  or  more  fortunate  hearers  made  up  the 
little  audience  at  the  impromptu  trial.  They  were 
Sam  Wiggett  and  Mary  Derling  (who  had  had  a 
little  dinner  for  Professor  Hedden),  the  four  mem- 
bers of  the  choir,  Lucille  Hardcome,  Miss  Hurley, 
David  and  'Thusia,  two  friends  Lucille  had  in- 
vited and  Schwerl. 

The  new  organ  was  a  magnificent  instrument. 
Behind  the  pulpit  and  the  choir  stall  the  great 
pipes  arose  in  a  convex  semicircle  as  typical  of 
aspiring  praise  as  any  Gothic  cathedral,  and 


LUCILLE    DISCOVERS    DAVID          149 

when,  Saturday  evening,  Professor  Hedden  seated 
himself  on  the  player's  bench  and,  after  resting 
his  hands  for  a  moment  on  the  keyboard,  plunged 
into  some  tremendous  "voluntary"  of  his  own 
composition,  the  mountains  and  the  ocean  and  all 
the  wild  winds  of  Heaven  seemed  to  join  in  one 
great  burst  of  gigantic  harmony.  It  seemed  then 
to  David  Dean  that  the  organ  pipes  should  have 
been  painted  in  glorious  gold  and  all  the  trium- 
phant hues  of  a  magnificent  sunrise  instead 
of  the  flat  terra  cotta  and  moss  green  that 
had  been  chosen  as  harmonizing  with  the  church 
interior. 

Presently  the  wild  tumult  of  sound  softened  to 
the  sighing  of  a  breeze  through  the  pine  trees,  to 
the  rippling  of  a  brook,  to  the  croon  of  a  mother 
over  a  babe.  David  held  his  breath  as  the  croon- 
ing died,  softer  and  softer,  until  he  saw  the  mother 
place  the  sleeping  child  in  its  crib,  and  when  the 
last  faint  note  died  into  silence  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes.  This  was  music !  It  was  such  music 
as  Riverbank  had  never  heard  before ! 

"This  is  another  of  my  own,"  said  Professor 
Hedden  and  the  organ  began  to  laugh  like  nymphs 
at  play  in  a  green,  sunny  field— tricksy  laughter 
that  made  the  heart  glad — and  that  changed  into 
a  happy  hands-all-around  romp,  interrupted  by 
the  thin  note  of  a  shepherd's  flute.  Out  from  the 
trees  bordering  the  field  David  could  see  the 
shepherd  come,  swaying  the  upper  part  of  his 
body  in  time  to  his  thin  note,  and  behind  him  came 
dancing  nymphs  and  dryads  and  fauns.  He 


150  DOMINIE   DEAN 

touched  'Thusia's  hand,  and  she  nodded  and 
smiled  without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  organ. 
Then  the  clash  of  cymbals  and  the  blare  of  trum- 
pets and  the  martial  tread  of  the  warriors  shook 
the  green  field — thousands  of  armed  men — and 
all  the  while,  faint  but  insistent,  the  piping  of  the 
shepherd  and  the  laughter  of  the  dancing  nymphs. 
And  then  came  priests  bearing  an  altar,  chanting. 
The  cymbals  and  the  flute  and  the  trumpets  ceased 
and  the  dancers  were  still.  David  could  see  the 
altar  carried  to  the  center  of  the  green  field. 
There  was  a  moment  of  pause  and  then  arose, 
faint  at  first  but  growing  stronger  each  instant, 
the  hymn  of  praise,  of  praise  triumphant  and  all- 
overpowering.  Mightier  and  mightier  it  grew 
until  the  whole  universe  seemed  to  join  in  the 
glorification  of  deity.  David  half  arose  from  his 
seat,  his  hands  grasping  the  back  of  the  pew  in 
front  of  him.  Praise!  this  was  praise  indeed; 
praise  worthy  of  the  God  worshiped  in  this 
church;  worthy  of  any  God! 

As  the  music  ceased  David's  eye  fell  on  Miss 
Hurley  at  the  far  end  of  his  pew.  The  thin  little 
woman  in  her  cheap  garments  was  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  Her  hands  trembled 
with  emotion.  Suddenly  she  dropped  her  fore- 
head to  the  back  of  the  pew  before  her  and  with 
one  silk-gloved  hand  on  either  side  of  her  cheek, 
remained  so. 

Professor  Hedden,  half  turning  on  his  seat, 
said: 

"While  this  next  is  hardly  what  I  would  call 


LUCILLE   DISCOVERS   DAVID          151 

a  complete  composition,  it  may  give  you  an  idea 
of  the  capabilities  of  the  organ." 

When  he  ceased  playing  he  said: 

"It  is  merely  an  exercise  in  technique,  but  I 
think  it  shows  fairly  well  what  can  be  done  with 
a  good  organ." 

It  may  have  been  merely  an  exercise,  but  it 
had  made  the  organ  perform  as  no  one  in  that 
church,  aside  from  Professor  Hedden  himself, 
had  ever  heard  an  organ  perform.  The  full 
majesty  and  beauty  of  the  great  instrument,  un- 
guessed  by  those  who  had  gathered  to  hear  this 
first  test,  stood  revealed.  David  Dean's  heart 
was  full.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  organ,  capa- 
ble of  speaking  in  such  a  manner,  must  be  a 
mighty  force  to  aid  him  in  his  ministerial  work; 
as  if  the  organ  were  a  living  thing.  Such  music 
must  grasp  souls  and  raise  them  far  toward 
Heaven. 

Professor  Hedden  arose  and  approached  the 
steps  leading  down  from  the  organ.  In  the  pew 
in  front  of  David  old  Sam  Wiggett,  donor  of  the 
organ,  sat  in  his  greatcoat,  his  iron  gray  hair 
mussed  as  always.  David  could  imagine  the  firm- 
set  mouth,  the  heavy  jowls,  the  bushy  eyebrows, 
the  scowl  that  seldom  left  the  old  man's  face. 
Lucille  Hardcome  whispered  to  him  and  he 
nodded. 

"Now  let's  hear  Miss  Hurley  play  something," 
said  Lucille  in  her  sweetest  voice. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Miss  Hurley,  cowering  into 
her  corner.  "Not  now,  please!  Not  after  that!" 


152  DOMINIE   DEAN 

Lucille  laughed.  Old  Sam  Wiggett  sat  as  be- 
fore, his  head  half  hidden  by  his  coat  collar,  but 
David  knew  the  grim  look  that  was  on  the  old 
man's  face.  Wiggett 's  word  would  settle  the 
organist  matter  when  that  grim  old  man  chose 
to  speak.  David  turned  toward  Miss  Hurley, 
and  she  shook  her  head.  He  did  his  best  to 
smother  her  refusal  by  advancing  to  the  profes- 
sor with  congratulatory  hand  extended.  In  a 
moment  the  dozen  fortunate  listeners  were 
crowded  around  Professor  Hedden,  and  Miss 
Hurley,  in  her  pew  end,  was  forgotten. 

As  "Thusia,  David  and  Miss  Jane  were  leaving 
the  church  Lucille,  jingling  with  jewelry,  swooped 
down  upon  them. 

"Oh,  Miss  Hurley!"  she  called.  "Just  one 
minute,  please!" 

Miss  Jane  stopped  and  turned. 

"Professor  Hedden  thinks,"  Lucille  cooed, 
"or,  really,  I'm  not  sure  which  of  us  thought  of 
it,  but  we  quite  agree,  that  you  must  play  at  least 
once  to-morrow  morning!  To  christen  your 
organ  with  you  taking  no  part  would  be  quite 
too  shameful.  So" — she  hesitated  and  her  smile 
was  wicked — "so  we  want  you  to  play  the  con- 
gregation out  after  the  professor  is  through. 
You  know  they  will  never  leave  while  he  is  play- 
ing." 

The  taunt  was  cruel  and  plain  enough — that  the 
congregation  would  leave  if  Miss  Jane  played — 
and  Miss  Jane  reddened.  Professor  Hedden,  with 
Sam  Wiggett,  came  up  to  them. 


LUCILLE    DISCOVERS   DAVID          153 

"Of  course  you  must  play!"  he  said  through 
his  beard,  in  his  gruff,  kindly  voice. 

1  'But,  I — I — "  stammered  Miss  Jane. 

"Good-night!  Good-night,  all!"  said  Lucille. 
"It's  all  arranged,  Miss  Hurley,"  and  she  bore 
the  professor  away. 

"I  shall  not  dare!"  Miss  Jane  said  to  David. 
"After  such  music  as  the  professor  will  give! 
Even  the  biggest  thing  I  know — " 

"But  you'll  not  play  the  biggest  thing  you 
know,"  said  David. 

The  church  was  crowded  the  next  morning. 
Even  before  the  Sunday  school  was  dismissed  the 
seats  began  to  fill.  Sam  Wiggett  was  on  hand 
early,  grim  but  proud  of  his  great  gift;  his 
daughter  came  later  with  Lucille  and  Professor 
Hedden.  When  David  came  to  take  his  seat  be- 
hind his  pulpit  the  church  was  filled  as  it  had 
never  been  filled  before,  and  many  were  standing. 
The  two  ladies  of  the  choir  had  new  hats.  Pro- 
fessor Hedden  took  his  place  on  the  organist's 
bench  and  little  Miss  Jane  cowered  behind  the 
rail  curtain  of  terra-cotta  wool.  From  the  body 
of  the  church  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  top 
of  the  quaint  little  rooster  wing  on  her  hat.  The 
praise  service  began. 

I  cannot  remember  now  what  Professor  Hedden 
played,  but  it  was  wonderful  music,  as  we  all 
knew  it  would  be.  There  were  moments  when  the 
whole  church  edifice  seemed  to  tremble,  and  others 
when  we  held  our  breath  lest  we  fail  to  hear  the 
delicate  whispering  of  the  organ.  From  my  seat 


154  DOMINIE   DEAN 

in  the  diagonal  pews  at  the  side  of  the  church  I 
could  see  old  Sam  Wiggett's  face,  grim  and  set, 
and  Lucille  Hardcome's  triumphant  glances  and 
David's  thin,  clean-cut  features,  his  whole  spirit 
uplifted  by  the  music,  and  I  could  see  Miss  Jane's 
rooster  wing  sinking  lower  and  lower  behind  the 
terra-cotta  curtain. 

David's  sermon  was  short,  almost  a  rhapsody 
in  praise  of  the  music  of  praise,  and  then  an 
anthem,  and  Professor  Hedden's  final  offering. 
As  the  magnificent  music  rolled  through  the 
church,  poor  little  Miss  Jane's  rooster  wing  dis- 
appeared entirely  behind  the  curtain.  The  music 
ended  in  a  mighty  crash,  into  which  Professor 
Hedden  seemed  to  throw  all  the  power  of  the 
organ.  David  arose.  He  stood  a  moment  looking 
out  upon  the  congregation. 

"Following  the  benediction,"  his  clear  voice 
announced,  "our  organist,  Miss  Hurley,  will  play 
while  the  congregation  is  being  dismissed." 

Lucille  looked  from  side  to  side,  smiling  and 
raising  her  eyebrows.  David,  however,  did  not 
give  the  benediction  at  once.  He  stood,  looking 
out  over  the  congregation,  and  behind  him  and  the 
terra-cotta  curtain  two  hats  turned  toward  the 
place  where  we  had  seen  Miss  Jane's  rooster 
wing  sink  out  of  sight.  Professor  Hedden  bent 
down  and  raised  Miss  Jane  and  led  her  to  the 
player's  bench.  She  was  very  white.  No  one 
in  the  congregation  moved.  Then  David  spoke 
again. 

His  words  were  simple  enough.    He  began  by 


LUCILLE    DISCOVERS    DAVID          155 

speaking  of  the  man  who  had  given  the  organ,  and 
called  him  rugged  but  big-souled,  and  Sam  Wig- 
gett  frowned.  David  continued,  saying  the  organ 
would  always  be  a  memorial  of  that  man's  gene- 
rosity and  more  than  that.  As  David  raised  his 
head  there  came  from  the  organ,  as  if  from  far 
off — faint,  most  faint,  like  a  child's  voice  singing 
— the  strains  of  the  old,  old  hymn: 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

David  continued  as  the  music  sang  faintly.  He 
said  there  was  one,  in  whose  name  the  donor  had 
presented  the  organ,  whose  vacant  place  all  would 
regret,  since  she,  too,  would  have  been  eager  to 
join  in  the  music  of  praise,  but  he  believed,  he 
knew,  that  she  was  joining  in  the  voice  of  the  noble 
instrument  from  her  new  home  on  high.  Then  he 
said  the  benediction  and  the  organ's  voice  grew 
strong,  repeating  the  same  noble  hymn. 

The  congregation  arose.  One  by  one  the  voices 
took  up  the  hymn  until  every  voice  joined  in 
singing  old  Sam  Wiggett's  favorite  hymn;  the 
hymn  he  loved  because  his  wife  had  loved  it : 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

I  cannot  describe  the  change  that  came  over  the 
old  man's  face;  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  sitting 
with  his  hat  on  and  suddenly  uncovered.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  been  grimly  appraising  a  piece  of 
property  and  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  in 
God's  house  and  felt  the  organ  lifting  his  soul 
toward  Heaven.  He  glanced  to  the  left  as  if  seek- 


156  DOMINIE   DEAN 

ing  the  wife  who  had  for  so  many  years  stood  at 
his  side  to  sing  that  same  hymn.  He  raised  his 
face  to  David  and  then  suddenly  dropped  back 
into  his  seat.  Miss  Jane  reached  forward  and 
manipulated  I  know  not  what  stops  and  the  organ 
opened  its  great  lungs,  crying  triumphantly: 

"Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee!" 

Lucille  waited  for  Professor  Hedden  and  there 
were  plenty  who  waited  with  her,  but  old  Sam 
Wiggett  stood,  gruffly  slighting  the  words  of 
thanks  that  were  proffered  him,  until  Miss  Jane 
came  down  from  the  organ.  He  went  to  her  and 
took  her  hand. 

" Thank  you,  Jane!"  he  said.  "That's  what 
we  want — music,  not  fireworks!" 

He  walked  with  David  and  'Thusia  and  Miss 
Jane  to  the  church  door.  Mademoiselle  was  there 
and  she  pounced  upon  Miss  Jane. 

"Ah,  you  see!"  she  cried.  "I  am  disguised! 
I  buy  me  a  new  hat  so  no  one  will  know  me,  and 
I  come  to  hear  your  grand  organ.  He  was  mag- 
nificent, your  professor !  But  you,  Meester  Wig- 
gett," she  asked  in  her  quaint  accent,  "what  you 
think  now  of  our  leetle  St.  Cecilia?  She  can  play 
vairy  nice?" 

Miss  Jane  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"Uh!"  said  Sam  Wiggett,  which — freely  trans- 
lated— meant  that  as  long  as  he  lived  no  one  but 
Miss  Jane  should  play  the  Wiggett  pipe  organ  if 
he  could  prevent  it.  Lucille  looked  at  David  with 
a  new  respect. 


XI 

STEVE  TUBRILL 

ECILLE  HARDCOME'S  defeat,  unimportant 
as  it  was  to  the  world  at  large,  made  her 
furiously  angry  for  a  few  days.  She  would 
have  left  the  church  to  go  to  the  Episcopalians  if 
it  had  not  been  that  the  Episcopalian  Church  in 
Riverbank  was  direly  poverty-stricken.  Lucille 
sulked  for  a  few  days  and  let  the  report  go  out 
that  she  was  ill,  and  then  appeared  with  her  hair, 
which  had  been  golden,  a  glorious  shade  of  red. 
She  said  it  was  Titian.  It  was  immensely  becom- 
ing to  her.  Had  any  other  woman  in  the  congre- 
gation dared  to  change  the  color  of  her  hair  thus 
flauntingly  there  would  have  been  little  less  than 
a  scandal.  That  her  first  hair  vagary  created 
little  adverse  comment  shows  how  completely 
Lucille  had  impressed  us  with  the  idea  that  she 
was  extra-privileged.  Later  she  changed  the 
color  of  her  hair  as  the  whim  seized  her,  varying 
from  red  to  gold. 

In  addition  to  the  change  in  the  color  of  her 
hair  Lucille  came  out  of  her  brief  retirement  with 
an  entirely  changed  opinion  of  David  Dean.  She 
seemed  suddenly  aware  that,  far  from  being  a 
mere  church  accessory,  he  was  someone  worth 
while.  She  began  to  court  his  good  opinion 

157 


158  DOMINIE   DEAN 

openly.  Having  burned  her  fingers  she  admired 
the  fire. 

Lucille? was  a  woman  of  elementary  mentality 
and  much  of  her  domineering  success  was  due  to 
that  very  fact.  She  often  went  after  what  she 
wanted  with  a  directness  that  was  crude  but  ef- 
fective. Lucille  set  about  getting  David  under 
her  thumb. 

Poor  David !  Lucille  saw  that  his  dearest  tasks 
of  helpfulness  were  always  shared  by  the  trio — 
'Thusia,  now  grown  pale;  Eose  Hinch,  the  ever- 
cheerful;  and  Mary  Derling.  These  three  under- 
stood David.  They  echoed  his  gentle  tact  and 
loving-kindness,  and  it  was  to  be  a  fourth  in  this 
group  that  Lucille  decided  was  the  thing  she 
desired. 

For  the  work  done  by  the  trio,  under  David's 
gentle  direction,  Lucille  was  eminently  unfitted. 
The  three  women  were  handmaidens  of  charity; 
Lucille  was  a  major  general  of  earthly  ambitions. 
In  spite  of  this  she  thrust  herself  upon  David. 

The  power  of  single-minded  insistence  is  enor- 
mous. We  see  this  exemplified  over  and  over 
again  in  politics;  the  most  unsuitable  men,  by 
plain  force  of  will,  thrust  themselves  into  office. 
They  are  not  wanted;  everyone  knows  they  are 
out  of  place,  but  they  have  their  way.  Lucille — 
resplendent  hair,  flaring  gowns  and  all — forced 
David  to  accept  her  as  one  of  his  intimate  helpers 
by  the  simple  expedient  of  insisting  that  he 
should.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  she  opened  her 
purse,  but  this  was  in  itself  an  evidence  of  her 


STEVE    TURRILL  159 

unfitness  for  the  work  she  had  to  do.  Most  of 
David's  "cases"  needed  personal  service  of  a 
kind  Lucille  was  incapable  of  rendering.  She 
gave  them  dollars  instead.  Time  and  again  she 
upset  David's  plans  by  opening  her  hand  and 
showering  silver  where  it  was  not  good  to  bestow 
it.  She  tried  to  take  full  command  of  Rose  Hinch 
and  Mary  Derling.  They  went  calmly  on  their 
accustomed  ways. 

In  one  matter  in  which  David  was  interested 
Lucille  did  give  valuable  assistance.  Although 
Riverbank  was  notoriously  a  "wet"  town  the 
State  had  voted  a  prohibitory  law  against  liquor 
selling.  In  Riverbank  the  law  was  all  but  a  dead 
letter.  The  saloons  remained  open,  the  proprie- 
tors coming  up  once  a  month  to  pay  a  "fine," 
which  was  in  fact  a  local  license.  Probably  our 
saloons  were  no  worse  than  those  in  other  river 
towns,  but  many  of  us  believed  it  a  scandal  that 
they  should  continue  doing  business  contrary  to 
law.  Our  Davy  was  never  much  of  a  believer  in 
the  minister  in  politics,  although  he  had  said  his 
say  from  the  pulpit  with  enough  youthful  fervor 
back  in  Civil  War  days,  but  he  feared  and  hated 
the  saloon  and  all  liquor,  remembering  his  long 
fight  for  Mack  Graham  and  plenty  of  other  youths. 
He  was  mourning,  too,  his  best  of  friends,  old 
Doc  Benedict,  who  never  overcame  his  craving 
for  whisky,  and  who  died  after  being  thrown 
from  his  carriage  one  night  when  he  had  taken 
too  much.  No  doubt  Sam  Wiggett  had  some  in- 
fluence over  David's  actions,  too.  The  old  man 


160  DOMINIE   DEAN 

was  all  for  having  the  saloons  closed  as  long  as 
the  law  said  they  should  be  closed,  and,  to  some 
extent,  he  dragged  Davy  into  the  fight. 

It  was  understood  that  if  our  county  attorney 
wished  the  saloons  closed  he  could  close  them.  A 
fight  was  made  to  elect  a  "dry"  county  attorney, 
and,  as  it  happened,  the  fight  carried  all  the  county 
and  town  offices.  Every  Democrat  was  thrown 
out. 

No  one  can  say  how  greatly  David  Dean's  part 
in  the  campaign  affected  the  result.  I  think  it 
had  a  greater  effect  than  was  generally  believed. 
For  one  thing  his  sermons  aroused  us  as  nothing 
else  could  have  aroused  us,  and  for  another  he 
had  the  assistance  of  Lucille  Hardcome. 
|  As  women  are  apt  to  do,  Lucille  made  her  fight 
a  personal  matter.  She  organized  the  women, 
organized  children's  parades,  planned  house-to- 
house  appeals  and  persuaded  even  the  merchants 
who  favored  open  saloons  to  place  her  placards 
in  their  windows.  It  is  probable  that  Lucille 's 
work  did  more  to  cause  the  landslide  than  all  the 
handbills  and  speeches  of  the  politicians  and  she 
did  it  all  to  impress  David.  David's  personal 
stand  also  had  a  great  effect,  for  he  was  known 
as  a  conservative,  meddling  little  with  political 
affairs.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  between 
them  Lucille  Hardcome  and  David  carried  the 
election.  The  margin  was  small  enough  as  it  was. 
The  Riverbank  Eagle,  after  the  election,  declared 
that  without  David's  help  the  prohibition  forces 
would  have  lost  out.  Among  the  other  defeated 


STEVE    TURRILL  161 

candidates  was  Marty  Ware,  who  had  been  city 
treasurer  for  several  terms. 

The  new  city  officials,  most  of  them  greatly  sur- 
prised to  find  themselves  elected,  were  to  take 
office  January  first,  and  it  was  one  day  about  the 
middle  of  December  that  Steve  Turrill  came  to 
the  front  door  of  the  little  manse  and  asked  for 
David.  'Thusia,  who  came  to  the  door,  knew 
Turrill.  She  had  known  him  years  before,  when 
she  was  a  thoughtless,  pleasure-mad  young  girl. 
Even  then  Steve  had  been  a  gambler  and  fond  of 
a  fast  horse.  In  those  days  Steve  would  often 
disappear  for  months  at  a  time,  for  the  steam- 
boats were  gambling  palaces.  He  never  returned 
until  his  pockets  were  full  of  money  and  his 
mouth  full  of  tales  of  Memphis,  Cairo,  St.  Louis 
and  even  New  Orleans.  He  was  known  in  all  the 
gambling  places  up  and  down  the  Mississippi. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War  Steve  Turrill 
had  enlisted,  returning,  after  about  five  months 
service,  with  a  bullet  in  his  leg  just  below  the 
left  hip.  The  bullet  was  never  found.  After  that 
Steve  walked  with  a  cane  and  on  damp  days  one 
could  see  him  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  Biverbank 
Hotel,  his  forehead  creased  with  pain  and  his  left 
hand  ceaselessly  rubbing  his  left  hip.  When  his 
hip  was  worst  he  could  not  sit  still  at  the  gaming 
table.  To  the  gambler's  pallor  was  added  the 
pallor  of  pain. 

As  a  boy  I  remember  him  sitting  under  the  iron 
canopy  of  the  hotel.  We  all  knew  he  was  a 


162  DOMINIE   DEAN 

gambler,  and  he  was  the  only  gambler  we  knew. 
Sometimes  he  would  have  a  trotter,  and  we  would 
see  him  flash  down  the  street  behind  the  red- 
nostriled  animal;  sometimes  even  the  diamond 
horseshoe^  in  his  tie  and  the  rings  on  his  fingers 
would  be  gone. 

Everyone  seemed  to  speak  to  Steve  Turrill. 
Even  as  a  boy  I  knew,  vaguely,  that  he  had  a 
room  in  the  Eiverbank  Hotel  where  people  went 
to  gamble.  It  was  understood  that  not  everyone 
could  gamble  there.  I  think  there  was  a  feeling 
that  Steve  Turrill  was  ''straight,"  and  that  as 
he  had  been  wounded  in  the  war,  and  was  the 
last  professional  gambler  Riverbank  would  have, 
he  should  not  be  bothered.  I  believe  he  was  al- 
ways a  sick  man  and  that,  from  the  day  he  re- 
turned from  the  war,  Death  stood  constantly  at 
his  side. 

He  looked  as  if  Death's  hand  had  touched  him. 
His  thin,  sharp  features  were  ashen  gray  at  times 
and  his  hands  were  mere  bones  covered  with 
transparent  skin.  He  never  smiled.  He  never 
touched  liquor.  He  smoked  a  long,  thin  cigar 
that  he  had  made  especially  for  his  own  use;  I 
suppose  Doc  Benedict  had  told  him  how  much 
he  could  smoke  and  remain  alive. 

When  'Thusia  saw  him  at  the  door  (it  was  one 
of  her  "well"  days)  she  was  not  startled;  for 
many  odd  fish  come  to  a  dominie's  door  from  one 
end  of  the  year  to  the  next.  He  leaned  on  his 
cane  and  took  off  his  gray  felt  hat. 

"'Day,  'Thusia,"  he  said,  quite  as  if  they  had 


STEVE    TURRILL  163 

not  been  strangers  for  years;  "I  wonder  if  Mr. 
Dean  is  in?" 

"He's  in,"  said  'Thusia,  "but  this  is  the  after- 
noon he  works  on  his  sermon.  He  tries  not  to  see 
anyone. ' ' 

"This  is  more  important  than  a  sermon,"  said 
Turrill.  "Would  you  mind  telling  him  that?" 

David  would  see  him.  He  came  to  the  door 
himself  and  led  the  gambler  into  the  little  study 
where  the  spatter- work  motto,  "Keep  an  even 
mind  under  all  circumstances,"  hung  above  the 
desk.  He  gave  Turrill  his  hand  and  placed  a 
chair  for  him,  and  the  gambler  dropped  into  the 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  pain. 

"I  think  you  know  who  I  am,"  said  Turrill, 
rubbing  his  hip.  "I'm  Turrill.  I  do  a  little  in 
the  gambling  way." 

"Yes,  so  I  understand,"  said  David,  and  waited. 

"It's  not  about  myself  I've  come,"  said  Turrill. 
"I  wouldn't  bother  about  myself;  I'm  dead  any 
day.  I've  been  dead  twenty-five  years,  as  far  as 
my  gambling  chance  of  life  goes.  Do  you  know 
Marty  Ware?" 

"  Yes, "  said  David.    "  Is  it  about  him  ? ' ' 

"He's  going  to  kill  himself,"  said  Turrill  with- 
out emotion. 

David  waited. 

"The  fool!"  said  Turrill.  "He  came  to  me  and 
told  me.  Why,  I  can't  sleep  anyway,  with  this 
hip  of  mine!  How  can  I  sleep,  then,  when  I've 
got  such  a  thing  as  that  on  my  mind?  So  I  came 
to  you;  that's  what  you're  for,  isn't  it!" 


164  DOMINIE   DEAN 

' 'It  is  one  of  the  things,"  said  David. 

1  'He  got  that  book  of  Ingersoll's,"  Turrill  com- 
plained. "The  fool!  I've  read  that  book!  Do 
you  think,  with  this  pain  in  my  hip,  I  would  be 
dragging  along  here  day  after  day,  if  there  was 
anything  in  that  idea  that  a  man  has  a  right  to 
blow  himself  out  when  he  feels  like  it?  But  that's 
what  Mart  Ware  has  worked  into  his  head. 
Suicide!  He's  going  to  do  it!" 

"Yes?    Well?"  asked  David. 

Turrill,  rubbing  his  hip,  looked  at  David.  He 
had  hardly  expected  anything  like  this  calm  query. 
He  had  pictured  our  dominie  rushing  for  coat  and 
hat,  rolling  his  eyes,  perhaps,  and  muttering 
prayers.  Instead,  David  leaned  back  in  his  deep 
chair  and  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together 
and  waited. 

"I  won  his  money,"  said  Turrill. 

"Yes,  I  supposed  so,  or  you  wouldn't  be  here, 
would  you?"  said  David. 

1 '  The  devil  of  it—"  Turrill  stopped.    ' l  The—' ' 

"I  dare  say  it  is  the  devil  of  it,"  said  David. 
"Go  on." 

"Well,  then,  the  devil  of  it  is,  I'm  strapped!" 
said  Turrill.  "If  I  wasn't—"  He  waved  his 
hand  to  show  how  simple  it  would  be.  "He  came 
yesterday,  telling  me  the  story.  I'm  a  sick  man; 
I  close  my  place  at  one  every  morning;  I  can't 
stand  any  more  than  that;  but  last  night  I  let 
them  stay  until  daylight,  and,  curse  it !  I  had  no 
luck!  I  took  the  limit  off  and  tried  to  win  what 
Marty  needs,  and  they  cleaned  me  out  and  took 


STEVE    TURRILL  165 

my  I.  0.  U.'s.  So  I  came  to  you.  It  was  all  I 
could  think  of." 

He  paused  a  moment  while  he  rubbed  his  hip. 

"It  wasn't  his  own  money  Marty  lost,"  he  said 
then.  "He's  taken  two  thousand  dollars  of  the 
city  money,  and  I  won  it."  He  stretched  out  his 
leg  and  fumbled  in  his  trousers  pocket  and 
brought  out  a  roll  of  money.  ' '  There ! "  he  said ; 
"there  is  five  hundred  dollars.  I  went  around  to- 
day and  raised  that  among  the  men  who  come  to 
my  room.  I  can't  raise  another  cent.  That's  all 
I  can  do;  what  can  you  do?" 

Now  David  arose  and  walked  the  narrow  space 
before  Turrill. 

"I  suppose  his  bondsmen  will  make  good?  He 
has  bondsmen,  hasn't  he?  I  don't  know  much 
about  such  things." 

"They'll  have  to  make  good  what  he  is  short," 
said  Turrill.  "Seth  Hardcome  will  have  to  make 
it  all  good.  Tony  Porter  is  on  the  bond,  but  he 
hasn't  a  cent.  If  he  had  a  cent  he  wouldn't  have 
gone  on  the  bond — that's  the  kind  he  is.  Hard- 
come  is  the  man  that'll  have  to  make  good.  But 
he'll  see  Mart  Ware  in  the  penitentiary  first." 

"Why?" 

Turrill  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"How  do  I  know?  Mart  says  so;  Mart  went 
to  him.  He  told  Hardcome  the  whole  thing  and 
asked  him  to  see  him  through — said  he  would 
work  his  hands  to  the  bone  to  pay  it  back.  Hard- 
come  won't  do  anything  and  Porter  can't  and 
Marty  will  kill  himself  before  he  goes  to  the  pen. 


166  DOMINIE   DEAN 

Hardcome  is  one  of  your  deacons,  or  whatever 
you  call  them,  isn't  he?" 

"No.  He  is  not  in  my  church  at  all,"  said 
David.  "But  he  is  a  just  man;  I  am  sure  he  is  a 
just  man." 

"He  is  a  hard  man,"  said  Turrill.  "The  most 
he  would  do  for  me  was  to  say  he  would  keep  his 
mouth  shut  until  the  new  treasurer  goes  in.  He 
says  he'll  send  Marty  to  the  pen;  he'll  kill  Marty 
instead." 

Turrill  arose.  There  was  no  emotion  shown 
on  his  inscrutable  gambler's  face.  David  stood 
fingering  the  money  Turrill  had  handed  him,  and 
Turrill  moved  to  the  door.  From  the  back  he 
looked  like  an  old,  old  man. 

"You  can  see  what  you  can  do,  if  you  want 
to,"  Turrill  said.  "I  can't  do  anything." 

"Wait!"  David  said.  "You'll  let  me  thank 
you  for  coming  to  me?  You'll  let  me  call  on  you 
for  help  if  I  need  it?" 

"Anything!"  said  Turrill,  and  with  that  he 
went. 

'Thusia  was  in  the  kitchen  and  David  went 
there. 

"  It 's  Marty  Ware, ' '  he  said.  "  He 's  in  trouble, 
'Thusia.  I'll  have  to  go  downtown  and  let  my 
sermon  go.  We'll  give  them  another  from  the 
bottom  of  the  barrel  this  time.  Do  you  suppose 
you  can,  presently,  take  Alice  and  drop  in  on 
Marty's  mother  for  a  little  visit?  Are  you  able?" 

"In  half  an  hour?" 

"Yes,  or  in  an  hour.    Marty  is  in  dire  trouble, 


STEVE   TXIRRILL  167 

'Thusia,  and  I  don't  know  whether  he  can  be 
pulled  out  of  it.  I'm  going  to  do  what  I  can.  I've 
been  thinking  of  his  mother;  she  is  so — what's 
the  wordf — aloof?  isolated?  so  by  herself.  If 
the  trouble  comes  she  will  need  someone,  some 
woman,  or  she  will  break.  I'd  send  Rose  Hinch, 
but  I  think  you  would  be  better — you  and  Alice. " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  'Thusia  said.  "  'Some- 
thing not  too  bright  and  good  for  human  nature 's 
daily  food.'  Is  Marty's  trouble  serious?" 

David  placed  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  serious,  'Thusia,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  want  you  to  know.  You'll  not 
let  his  mother  guess  we  know  anything  about  it?" 

"Let  me  think!"  said  'Thusia.  "Didn't  she 
give  a  lemon  cake  for  our  last  church  dinner? 
I'm  sure  she  did!  It  will  be  about  that  I  happen 
to  run  in.  You'll  be  back  in  time  for  supper, 
David?  Hot  rolls,  you  know!" 

"Oh,  if  it  is  hot  rolls  you  can  depend  on  me!" 
David  smiledT 

Mrs.  Ware  was  a  peculiar  woman.  She  was  an 
old  woman  and  alone  in  the  world  except  for 
Marty,  her  only  son,  who  had  come  late  in  her 
life.  She  was  a  proud  woman.  During  her  hus- 
band's life  she  had  rather  lorded  it  (or  ladied  it) 
over  our  mixed  "good  society"  in  Riverbank. 
Ware  had  been  a  commission  man,  now  and  then 
plunging  on  his  own  hook,  as  we  say,  buying 
heavily  and  selling  when  prices  went  up.  He 
always  had  abundant  money,  and  Mrs.  Ware 
spent  it  for  him.  They  built  the  big  house  over- 


168  DOMINIE   DEAN 

looking  the  river — a  palace  for  Riverbank  of  those 
days — and  Mrs.  Ware  held  her  head  very  high, 
with  four  horses  in  the  stable  and  a  coachman  and 
gardener  and  two  maids  and  a  grand  piano  and 
four  oil  paintings  "done  by  hand"  in  Europe! 
And  then,  when  Ware  died,  there  was  hardly 
enough  money  in  the  bank  to  pay  for  his  funeral, 
no  life  insurance,  and  everything  mortgaged. 
Marty  was  about  fourteen  then,  a  bright  boy. 

For  a  year  or  so  Mrs.  Ware  tried  to  keep  the 
big  house,  and  then  it  had  to  go.  Instead  of  the 
social  queen,  spending  the  largest  income  in 
Kiverbank,  she  was  almost  the  poorest  of  women. 
She  moved  out  of  the  big  house  into  a  little  three- 
room  white  box  of  a  place  on  a  back  street  that 
was  then  a  mere  track  through  the  weeds.  Her 
white  hands  had  to  do  all  the  housework  that  was 
done ;  she  had  no  maid  at  all,  and  hardly  enough 
for  herself  and  Marty  to  eat.  No  doubt  it  was 
a  crushing  blow,  but  she  could  not  bare  herself 
in  her  poverty  to  those  who  had  known  her  in 
her  flaunting  prosperity.  She  shut  her  door,  and 
became  a  proud,  hard  recluse. 

Somehow  she  managed  to  get  Marty  through 
the  high  school,  and  then  he  went  to  work.  He 
found  some  minor  position  in  one  of  our  banks 
and  might  have  held  it  and  have  worked  up  into 
a  better  position,  for  he  proved  to  be  a  natural 
accountant,  but  the  "fast  set"  caught  him,  and, 
after  it  was  learned  that  he  spent  his  nights  with 
the  cards,  the  bank  let  him  go.  Until  he  was 
twenty-one  he  skipped  from  one  temporary  job 


STEVE    TURRILL  169 

to  another.  Sometimes  he  was  in  the  freight 
office,  then  with  a  mill,  then  behind  a  counter  for 
a  few  weeks.  He  had  wonderful  adaptability  and 
seemed  able  to  step  into  a  position  and  take  up 
the  work  of  another  man  in  an  instant.  He 
seemed  destined  to  become  a  permanent  "  tem- 
porary assistant,"  but  he  was  making  more 
friends  all  the  while  and  he  had  hardly  passed  his 
majority  when  he  was  elected  city  treasurer.  He 
seemed  to  have  found  his  proper  niche  at  last. 

The  salary  attached  to  the  treasurership  was 
not  large  but  it  was  enough,  or  would  have  been  if 
Marty  had  not  gambled.  One  good  black  winter 
suit  and  one  good  black  summer  suit  will  last 
many  years  in  Riverbank,  and  Marty  always 
seemed  properly  dressed  in  black.  He  was  slen- 
der and  what  we  called  "natty."  His  hair  was 
as  black  as  night.  During  his  second  term  he 
began  to  show  the  effects  of  his  nights.  His  face 
became  paler  than  it  should  have  been,  and  some 
mornings  he  was  so  tremulous  he  took  a  glass  of 
whisky  to  steady  his  hands.  With  all  this  he  was 
immensely  popular,  and  when  the  chances  of  the 
campaign  in  which  he  was  finally  beaten  were 
discussed  Mart  Ware  was  the  one  man  no  one 
believed  could  be  beaten.  He  lost  by  twenty  votes. 

As  David  walked  down  the  hill  toward  Main 
Street  and  Seth  Hardcome's  shoe  store  he  thought 
of  these  things.  Mart  Ware  was  one  man,  if  there 
were  any,  who  had  been  thrown  out  of  office 
through  David's  part  in  the  campaign.  To  that 
extent  he  was  specifically  responsible;  in  the 


170  DOMINIE    DEAN 

broader  sense  that  he  was  his  " brother's  keeper" 
it  was  his  duty  to  do  all  he  could  to  save  any 
man  or  woman  in  such  trouble  as  Marty  was  in. 

A  year  or  two  earlier  Seth  Hardcome,  his  tough 
old  body  beginning  to  feel  the  draughts  and 
changes  of  temperature  of  his  long,  narrow  store, 
had  had  Belden,  the  contractor,  partition  off  an 
office  across  the  rear,  and  here  David  found  the 
old  man.  He  was  standing  at  his  tall  desk,  mak- 
ing out  half-yearly  bills  against  the  coming  of 
the  first  of  January,  and  he  pushed  his  spectacles 
up  into  his  hair  and  turned  to  David  with  the  air 
of  a  busy  man  interrupted. 

1  'Well,  dominie?" 

David  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  one  of  the 
chairs  near  the  little  stove  that  heated  the  office. 

"Can  you  sit  down  for  a  minute  or  two?"  he 
asked.  "Have  you  time  to  talk  facts  and  figures; 
to  give  me  a  business  man's  good  advice?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Hardcome;  "I  guess  you 
ain't  going  to  try  to  sell  me  any  stocks  and  bonds, 
eh?  I  guess  you're  one  man  I  don't  have  to  be 
afraid  of  that  with.  Facts  and  figures,  eh?  Fire 
away!" 

David  seated  himself  and  put  one  knee  over  the 
other.  The  warmth  of  the  stove  was  grateful 
after  the  chill  air  outside,  and  he  rubbed  his  palms 
back  and  forth  against  each  other. 

"Do  you  know — or,  if  you  don't  know  exactly, 
can  you  guess  fairly  close  to  it — what  the  cam- 
paign we  had  last  month  cost  our  crowd? ' '  David 
asked. 


STEVE   TURRILL  171 

" County  or  city!"  asked  Hardcome.  "I  guess 
there  wasn't  much  spent  outside  the  city." 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  city,"  said  David. 

"Well,  we  raised  pretty  close  to  four  thousand 
dollars,"  said  Hardcome,  "and  we  spent  more 
than  that.  We  spent  more  than  four  thousand 
dollars.  Halls,  fireworks,  speakers,  printing — 
costs  a  lot  of  money!  I  guess  the  other  fellows 
spent  three  times  that,  so  we  can't  complain.  I 
hear  the  liquor  makers  poured  a  lot  of  money 
into  Riverbank,  and  I  guess  it's  so.  Wouldn't 
surprise  me  at  all  if  they  spent  ten  or  twelve 
thousand." 

"To  our  four  thousand,"  said  David.  "Look- 
ing at  it  that  way  you  couldn't  call  our  money 
wasted,  could  you!" 

"Wasted!  What  you  talking  about!  To  clean 
out  these  saloons !  Four  thousand  dollars  wasted, 
when  we've  as  good  as  got  the  saloons  closed  by 
spending  it?  You  don't  take  count  of  money  that 
way  when  it's  for  a  thing  like  that,  do  you?" 

"Money  is  money,"  said  David  sagely.  "A 
half  of  four  thousand  dollars  would  be  a  wonder- 
ful help  to  our  church.  And  yours  is  not  too  rich, 
is  it?  Four  thousand  dollars  would  buy  the  poor 
how  many  pairs  of  shoes?  Eight  hundred?  A 
thousand?" 

"Depends  on  the  kind  of  shoes,"  said  Hard- 
come  with  a  grim  smile.  "And  a  lot  of  good  it 
would  do  to  give  them  shoes  into  one  hand,  when 
they  go  right  off  and  spend  all  they've  got,  in  the 
saloons,  with  the  other.  Ain't  they  better  off  with 


172  DOMINIE   DEAN 

tlie  saloons  closed  and  the  money  in  their  pockets 
to  buy  their  own  shoes ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  admit  that,"  said  David.  "Is  that 
why  we  made  the  fight  to  close  the  saloons!  So 
they  could  buy  their  own  shoes?  There  are  not 
so  many  poor  in  this  town,  Hardcome.  You  don't 
see  many  suffering  for  shoes.  I  thought  our 
campaign  had  something  to  do  with  saving  a  few 
souls — a  few  bodies  that  were  going  down  into 
the  gutter." 

"So  it  did!"  said  Hardcome  promptly.  "I 
didn't  start  saying  how  many  shoes  the  campaign 
money  would  buy,  did  I?  I  seem  to  remember 
you  said  it  first." 

He  smiled  again,  the  pleased  smile  of  a  man 
who  has  got  a  dominie  in  a  corner  in  argument. 
David  smiled  too. 

"I  believe  I  did  first  mention  the  campaign  in 
terms  of  shoes, ' '  he  admitted.  ' '  I  stand  corrected. 
It  should  be  mentioned  in  terms  of  souls — human 
souls,  not  shoe  soles.  And,  looking  at  it  that  way, 
was  it  worth  the  price?  Was  it  worth  four 
thousand  dollars?" 

"My  stars!"  exclaimed  Hardcome,  and  stared 
at  David  in  genuine  surprise. 

"I  mean  just  that,"  insisted  David;  "was  it 
worth  four  thousand  dollars?  How  many  souls 
will  the  campaign  actually  save?  One?  Ten? 
A  thousand?  Not  a  thousand.  We  can't  say, 
offhand,  that  every  man  who  stepped  into  a  saloon 
lost  his  soul,  can  we?  He  might  be  saved  later, 
and  in  some  other  way,  at  less  cost.  How  many 


STEVE    TURRILL  173 

in  Biverbank  have  died  in  the  gutter  in  the  last 
year?  How  many  have  killed  themselves  because 
of  drink ?" 

"But — "  Hardcome  began.  David  raised  his 
hand. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "next  year  we  may  have 
this  all  to  do  over  again.  Next  year  we  may  need 
another  four  thousand  dollars,  and  the  next  year, 
and  the  next  year.  How  many  men  in  Eiverbank 
actually  die  in  the  gutter  each  year?" 

Now,  there  are  not  many.  Eiverbank  men  do 
not  often  die  in  the  gutter,  and  but  few  of  them 
kill  themselves  on  account  of  drink.  They  live 
on  for  years,  a  handful  of  sodden,  stupid,  blear- 
eyed  creatures. 

"One?"  asked  David.  "Is  the  average  one 
a  year?  I  don't  believe  it,  but  let  us  say  it  is 
one.  Is  it  worth  four  thousand  dollars  to  save 
one  drunkard  from  death?  To  save  one  drunk- 
ard's soul?  There  is  a  plain  business  proposi- 
tion: Is  it  worth  that  much  cash?  That's  what 
I'm  getting  at." 

"To  save  a  man!"  exclaimed  Hardcome,  his 
hard  face  as  near  showing  horror  as  it  had 
for  many  long  years.  "To  save  a  man  and  his 
eternal  soul?  What  do  you  mean?  We  don't 
set  prices  on  souls,  that  way,  do  we  ?  My  stars ! 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  And  from  a 
dominie!  You  can't  count  a  soul  in  cash  dollars. 
What  if  it  is  but  one  soul  we  drag  back  from  hell- 
fire?  What's  four  thousand,  or  five  thousand, 
or  ten  thousand  dollars  when  it  comes  to  a  soul?" 


174  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"I  don't  mean  your  soul,  or  mine,"  said  David. 
"I  mean  a  drunkard's  soul,  or  some  soul  like 
that.  Is  it  worth  while  to  spend  four  thousand 
dollars  to  save  one  soul?" 

"Of  course  it  is!"  snapped  Hardcome. 

" Couldn't  we,"  urged  David,  "save  more  souls, 
at  a  lower  cost  per  soul,  if  we  sent  the  money  to 
foreign  missions  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  could  or  we 
couldn't,"  cried  Hardcome.  "That's  got  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  We  got  to  take  care  of  the  souls 
right  at  home  first.  I  don't  care  if  it  costs  ten 
thousand  dollars  a  soul,  it's  our  duty  to  do  it!" 

David  arose  and  turned  and  faced  the  shoe 
merchant.  His  face  was  white.  His  eyes  were 
like  gray  steel.  He  had  no  smile  now. 

"Then,  if  you  think  souls  ar§  worth  so  much," 
he  asked  tensely,  "why  are  you  sending  Marty 
Ware  to  eternal  death  for  a  miserable  two  thou- 
sand dollars?  Two  thousand?  For  a  miserable 
fifteen  hundred,  for  here  are  five  hundred  a  be- 
nighted gambler  dug  up  to  save  the  boy!" 

Hardcome  was  on  his  feet  too.  He  had  turned 
as  white  as  David,  or  whiter. 

' '  Are  drunkards '  souls  the  only  souls  you  prize, 
Seth  Hardcome?"  asked  David.  "Don't  you 
know  that  boy  will  kill  himself  if  he  is  exposed 
and  ruined?  A  fool?  Of  course  he  is  a  fool! 
You  knew  he  was  a  gambler — you  must  have 
known  it — and  you  let  him  run  his  course  when 
you  might  have  brought  him  up  short,  threatening 
to  get  off  his  bond.  You  talk  about  ten-thousand- 


STEVE    TURRILL  175 

dollar  souls,  and  you  will  not  turn  over  your  hand 
to  save  Marty  Ware's  soul  when  it  will  not  cost 
you  a  cent!" 

1  'It '11  cost  me  two  thousand  dollars,"  said 
Hardcome.  " That's  what  it'll  cost  me!" 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  business  man!" 
laughed  David.  "A  business  man!  Look!" 

He  picked  up  the  roll  of  bank  notes  he  had 
thrown  on  the  shoe  merchant's  desk. 

"This  is  what  a  gambler  gave  to  save  Marty," 
he  exclaimed.  "Five  hundred  dollars!  And  you 
talk  about  it  costing  you  two  thousand  to  save 
Marty  from  suicide !  Why,  man,  your  two  thou- 
sand is  gone!  You  are  his  bondsman,  the  only 
responsible  one,  and  you'll  have  to  pay  whether 
he  is  dead  and  in  eternal  fire,  or  alive  and  to  be 
saved!  Your  two  thousand  is  gone,  spent,  van- 
ished already  and  it  will  not  cost  you  a  cent  more 
to  save  Marty  Ware's  soul.  Here,  take  this 
five  hundred  dollars;  you  can  save  five  hun- 
dred dollars  by  saving  Marty  Ware's  eternal 
soul!" 

Hardcome  was  dazed.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  the  money  and  looked  at  it  unseeingly, 
turning  it  over  and  over  in  his  fingers.  Then  he 
looked  up  at  David,  and  in  David's  eyes  was  a 
twinkle.  The  dominie  put  his  hand  on  the  shoe 
man's  arm,  and  laughed. 

"Did  I  do  that  well?"  he  asked. 

Hardcome  did  not  smile.  He  turned  his  head 
and  peered  through  the  glass  of  the  door  into 
the  store  room,  doubtless  to  see  where  his  clerk 


176  DOMINIE   DEAN 

was  and  whether  he  had  heard,  and  then  he  looked 
back  at  David. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  still  unsmilingly. 

David  seated  himself.  Hardcome  stood,  half 
leaning  against  the  desk,  turning  the  roll  of  bills 
in  his  hand. 

"You  don't  know  why  I  went  on  that  boy's 
bond,"  he  said.  "His  mother  slammed  a  door 
in  my  wife's  face,  or  what  amounted  to  that,  or 
worse.  His  mother  was  queen  of  Biverbank  when 
you  came,  and  for  a  long  while  after,  so  I  needn't 
tell  you  how  high  and  mighty  she  was  before 
Ware  died.  You  know,  I  guess.  They  came  here 
in  'Fifty-three,  and  my  wife  and  I  came  in  'Fifty- 
one,  and  I  started  this  shoe  business  that  year. 
That  was  on  Water  Street,  in  a  frame  shack 
where  the  Riverbank  Hotel  stands  now.  I  didn't 
move  the  store  up  here  until  'Fifty-nine.  My  wife 
and  I  lived  at  the  old  Morton  House  until  the  bugs 
drove  us  out — bugs  and  roaches,  and  we  couldn't 
stand  them — and  there  were  no  houses  to  be  had, 
so  for  a  while  we  lived  back  of  the  store  in  the 
shack,  getting  along  the  best  we  could,  waiting 
for  houses  to  be  built. 

1 '  The  Wares  had  some  money  when  they  came, 
and  Tarvole,  who  was  building  the  house  we 
hoped  to  rent,  sold  it  to  Ware  and  they  moved  in. 
You  know  how  things  are  in  a  new  town.  Any- 
way, my  wife  took  her  calling  cards  and  called 
on  Mrs.  Ware.  She  didn't  find  the  lady  at  home, 
and  that  evening  a  boy  brought  my  wife's  card 
back  to  her.  He  said  Mrs.  Ware  told  him  to 


STEVE   TURRILL  177 

say  she  wasn't  at  home,  and  wouldn't  be,  to  a 
cobbler. 

1  'My  wife  laughed  at  it,  but  it  made  me  mad 
enough.  I  said  I  would  get  even  with  the  Wares, 
and  I  meant  it.  I  kept  it  in  mind  for  years,  wait- 
ing a  chance,  but  you  don't  always  have  a  chance. 
There  are  some  men  and  women  you  can't  seem 
to  hurt,  and  the  Wares  were  two  of  them.  He 
seemed  to  make  plenty  of  money  and  keep  out  of 
things  where  I  could  have  done  him  a  bad  turn. 
I  got  to  be  a  director  in  the  Biverbank  National, 
but  he  never  needed  to  borrow,  so  I  couldn't  hurt 
him  there.  His  wife  was  always  at  the  tap  of 
things,  too.  I  couldn't  hit  her. 

"Well,  Ware  died  and  everything  went.  The 
widow  was  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse;  I  don't 
know  how  she  got  along.  She  was  so  poor  she 
couldn't  be  hurt;  she  was  like  the  dust  you  walk 
on — it's  dust,  and  that's  an  end  of  it:  it  can't 
be  anything  less.  She  shut  herself  up,  and  was 
nothing.  My  wife  was  dead,  anyway,  and  I 
couldn  't  hurt  the  widow  by  flaunting  my  wife  and 
the  position  she  had  in  the  widow's  face. 

"Then  this  boy  grew  up— rthis  Marty.  I  got 
him  the  place  in  the  bank." 

"You  did!"  David  exclaimed. 

"It  was  the  only  way  I  could  hit  at  the  widow," 
said  Hardcome.  "I  thought  maybe  it  would  an- 
noy her,  to  know  I  was  the  one  that  was  helping 
her  boy.  Maybe  it  did.  I  never  knew.  When  the 
cashier  said  it  wasn't  safe  to  keep  him  any  longer 
I  told  Marty  to  tell  his  mother  not  to  worry;  that 


178  DOMINIE   DEAN 

I  would  try  to  fix  it  so  he  could  stay.  I  did  manage 
to  get  them  to  keep  him  a  few  months  longer; 
then  they  outvoted  me. 

"Then  I  got  him  the  place  in  the  freight  office, 
but  he  couldn't  hold  it.  A  couple  of  times,  when 
he  lost  his  jobs,  I  took  him  in  the  store  here.  I 
knew  that  would  annoy  the  old  dame,  and  I  guess 
it  did.  Then  some  of  the  Democrats  picked  him 
up  and  ran  him  for  this  job  he  has  now.  It  made 
me  mad  that  I  couldn't  say  I  had  been  back  of 
that,  but  when  it  came  to  getting  a  couple  of 
bondsmen  I  saw  another  chance  to  bother  the  old 
lady.  I  went  on  his  bond." 

Hardcome  unrolled  the  money  in  his  hand  and 
smoothed  it  out. 

"You  knew  my  wife,  dominie,"  he  continued 
slowly.  ' '  Some  people  did  not  like  her,  but  I  did. 
I  never  had  any  complaint  to  make  about  her; 
she  was  a  good  wife.  So  it  sort  of  seemed  to  me — 
when  Turrill  came  to  me  and  told  me  what  Marty 
had  done — and  I  remembered  how  that  woman 
had  slammed  her  door  in  my  wife's  face,  so  to 
say — that  this  was  my  chance — my  chance  to  get 
even  once  for  all." 

He  stopped,  folded  the  bills,  and  slipped  them 
into  his  pocket. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "you  didn't  know  the  whole 
story.  It  would  have  been  something  of  a  wind- 
up  to  send  the  boy  to  the  penitentiary.  I  guess 
that  would  have  taken  the  old  lady  off  her  high 
horse.  But  I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  kill 
the  boy's  soul,  or  anybody's  soul.  I  guess  I'll 


STEVE    TURRILL  179 

make  good  what  he  is  short,  and  take  him  into  the 
store  here  again." 

David  was  out  of  his  chair  and  his  hand  clasped 
Hardcome's  hand.  The  old  man  laughed  then, 
a  little  sheepishly. 

"Sort  of  tickles  me!"  he  said.  "Wouldn't  the 
old  dame  be  hopping  mad  if  she  knew  the  cobbler 
was  going  to  save  the  Eiverbank  queen's  boy,  and 
his  life,  and  his  soul,  and  the  whole  caboodle!" 

"It  would  be  coals  of  fire  on  her  head,"  smiled 
David. 

"'Twould  so!"  said  Seth  Hardcome;  "and  I 
reckon  the  hair  is  getting  pretty  thin  on  the  top 
of  her  head  now,  too!" 

Then  he  laughed.    And  David  laughed. 

He  was  still  smiling  when  he  stepped  out  into 
the  street  and  was  told  by  the  first  man  he  met 
that  old  Sam  Wiggett  had  just  dropped  dead  in 
his  office. 


XII 
MONEY  MATTERS 

EOKING  back,  in  later  years,  the  death  of  old 
Sam  Wiggett  seemed  to  David  Dean  to 
mark  the  close  of  one  epoch  and  the  begin- 
ning of  another,  and  the  day  he  heard  of  the  en- 
gagement of  his  daughter  Alice  marked  a  third. 

It  was  Monday  and  well  past  noon  and  the  heat 
was  intense.  Although  he  was  late  for  dinner 
— noon  dinners  being  the  rule  in  Riverbank — 
David  paused  now  and  then  as  he  climbed  the 
Third  Street  hill,  resting  a  few  moments  in  the 
shade  and  fanning  himself  with  the  palm-leaf  fan 
he  carried.  Where  the  walk  was  not  shaded  by 
overarching  maple  trees  the  heat  beat  up  from  the 
plank  sidewalks  in  appreciable  gusts.  All  spring 
he  had  been  feeling  unaccountably  weary,  and 
these  hot  days  seemed  to  take  the  sap  out  of  him. 
He  had  had  a  hard  morning. 

His  Sunday  had  held  a  disappointment.  In 
one  way  or  another  Lucille  Hardcome  had  induced 
John  Gorst,  whose  fame  as  a  pulpit  orator  was 
country-wide,  to  spend  the  day  at  Riverbank  and 
preach  morning  and  evening — in  the  morning  at 
David's  church  and  in  the  evening  at  the  union 
meeting  in  the  court  square — and  David  had 
looked  forward  to  the  day  as  one  that  would 

180 


MONEY   MATTERS  181 

give  him  the  uplift  of  communion  with  one  of 
the  great  minds  of  his  church.  He  had  dined 
at  Lucille 's  with  John  Gorst  and  had  had  the 
afternoon  with  him,  and  it  had  been  all  a  sad 
disappointment.  Instead  of  finding  Gorst  a  big 
mind  he  had  found  him  somewhat  shallow  and 
theatrical.  Instead  of  a  day  of  intellectual  growth 
David  had  suffered  a  day  of  shattered  ideals. 
While  he  disliked  to  admit  it  he  had  to  confess 
that  the  great  John  Gorst  was  tiresome. 

He  did  admit,  however,  that  the  two  sermons 
John  Gorst  preached  were  masterpieces  of  pulpit 
oratory.  What  he  said  was  not  so  much,  nor  did 
he  leave  in  David's  mind  so  much  as  a  mustard 
seed  of  original  thought,  but  the  great  preacher 
had  held  his  congregations  breathless.  He  had 
made  them  weep  and  gasp,  and  he  had  thrilled 
them.  Hearing  him  David  understood  why  John 
Gorst  had  leaped  from  a  third-rate  church  in  a 
country  village  to  one  of  the  best  churches  in  a 
large  town,  and  then  to  a  famous  and  wealthy 
church  in  a  metropolis. 

David's  first  duty  this  Monday  morning  had 
been  to  see  John  Gorst  off  on  the  morning  train. 
Lucille  Hardcome  and  four  or  five  others  had 
been  at  the  station,  and  John  Gorst  had  glowed 
under  their  words  of  adulation.  Well-fed,  well- 
groomed,  he  had  nodded  to  them  from  the  car 
window  as  the  train  pulled  out,  and  David  had 
turned  away  to  tramp  through  the  hot  streets  to 
the  East  End  where,  Eose  Hinch  had  sent  word, 
old  Mrs.  Grelling  was  close  to  death.  John  Gorst, 


182  DOMINIE   DEAN 

in  his  parlor  car,  was  on  his  way  to  complete 
his  two  months'  vacation  at  the  camp  of  a  mil- 
lionaire parishioner  in  the  Wisconsin  woods. 

Old  Mrs.  Grelling,  senile  and  maundering,  had 
been  weeping  weakly,  oppressed  by  a  hallucina- 
tion that  she  had  lost  her  grasp  on  Heaven.  Her 
little  room  was  insufferably  hot  and  close,  and 
Rose  Hinch  sat  by  the  bed  fanning  the  emaciated 
old  woman,  turning  her  pillow  now  and  then,  try- 
ing to  make  her  comfortable.  Her  patient  had  no 
bodily  pain;  in  an  hour,  or  a  day,  or  a  week,  she 
would  fall  asleep  forever  and  without  discomfort, 
but  now  she  was  in  dire  distress  of  mind.  Grown 
childish  she  could  not  remember  that  she  was 
at  peace  with  God,  and  she  mourned  and  would 
not  let  Eose  Hinch  comfort  her. 

In  twelve  words  David  brought  peace  to  the 
old  woman  in  the  bed.  It  was  not  logic  she 
wanted,  nor  oratory  such  as  John  Gorst  could 
have  given,  but  the  few  words  of  comfort  from 
the  man  of  God  in  whom  she  had  faith.  David 
knelt  by  the  bed  and  prayed,  and  read  ' '  The  Lord 
is  My  Shepherd,"  and  her  doubts  no  longer 
troubled  her.  If  David  Dean,  the  dominie  she 
had  trusted  these  many  years,  assured  her  she 
was  safe,  she  could  put  aside  worry  and  die  peace- 
fully. David  saw  a  Book  of  Psalms  on  her  bed- 
side table,  less  bulky  than  the  large-typed  Bible, 
and  he  put  it  in  her  hands. 

"Hold  fast  to  this,"  he  said,  "it  is  the  sign  of 
your  salvation.  You  will  not  be  afraid  again. 
I  must  go  now,  but  I  will  come  back  again." 


MONEY   MATTERS  183 

He  left  her  clasping  the  book  in  both  her  hands. 
She  died  before  he  saw  her  again,  but  Rose  Hinch 
told  him  she  held  the  book  until  she  died,  and  that 
she  had  no  return  of  the  childish  fear.  She  slept 
into  eternity  peacefully  content. 

From  Mrs.  Grelling's  bedside  David  walked  to 
Herwig's  to  give  his  daily  order  for  groceries. 
The  old  grocer  entered  the  small  order  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"t)ominie — "  he  said. 

David  knew  what  was  coming,  or  imagined  he 
did,  and  felt  sick  at  heart. 

"Yes?"  he  queried. 

"I  guess  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  I  hate 
to  say  anything  about  money, ' '  said  Herwig,  * '  and 
you  know  I  wouldn't  if  I  wasn't  so  hard  put  to 
it  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  I  don't  want 
you  to  worry  about  it.  If  it  ain't  convenient  just 
you  forget  I  ever  said  anything.  Fact  is  I'm  so 
pressed  for  money  I'm  worried  to  death.  The 
wholesalers  I  get  my  goods  of — " 

"My  bill  is  much  larger  than  it  should  be," 
said  David.  "I  have  let  it  run  longer  than  I  have 
any  right  to.  Just  at  this  moment — " 

"I  wouldn't  even  speak  of  it  if  I  wasn't  so  put 
to  it  to  satisfy  those  I  owe,"  said  Herwig  apolo- 
getically. "I  thought  maybe  you  might  be  able 
to  help  me  out  somehow,  but  I  don't  want  to 
put  you  to  any  trouble." 

He  was  evidently  sincere. 

"My  wholesalers  are  threatening  to  close  me 
out,"  he  said,  "and  I've  just  got  to  try  every 


184  DOMINIE   DEAN 

way  I  can  to  raise  some  cash.  If  it  wasn't  for 
that  I  wouldn't  dun  a  good  customer,  let  alone 
you,  Mr.  Dean." 

'  *  I  know  it,  Brother  Herwig, ' '  David  said.  ' '  You 
have  been  most  lenient.  I  am  ashamed.  I  will 
see  what  I  can  do." 

The  old  grocer  followed  him  to  the  door,  still 
protesting  his  regret,  and  David  turned  up  the 
street  to  do  the  thing  he  disliked  most  of  any- 
thing in  the  world — ask  his  trustees  for  a  further 
advance  on  his  salary. 

Already  he  was  overdrawn  by  several  hundred 
dollars,  and  he  was  as  deeply  ashamed  of  this 
as  he  was  of  his  debts  to  the  merchants  of  River- 
bank.  It  had  always  been  his  pride  to  be  "even 
with  the  world";  he  felt  that  no  man  had  a  right 
to  live  beyond  his  means — "spending  to-morrow 
to  pay  for  to-day,"  he  called  it — and  he  had  wor- 
ried much  over  his  accumulating  debts.  That 
very  morning,  before  he  had  left  his  manse,  he 
had  made  out  a  new  schedule  of  his  indebtedness, 
and  had  been  shocked  to  see  how  it  had  grown 
since  his  trustees  had  made  the  last  advance 
he  had  asked.  With  the  advance  the  trustees 
had  allowed  him,  the  total  was  something  over 
a  thousand  dollars.  He  still  owed  something  on 
last  winter's  coal;  he  owed  a  goodly  drug  bill; 
his  grocery  bill  was  unpaid  since  the  first  of  the 
year;  he  owed  the  butcher;  the  milkman  had  a 
bill  against  him;  there  were  a  dozen  small  ac- 
counts for  shoes,  drygoods,  one  thing  and  another. 

In  Biverbank,  at  that  time,  business  was  nearly 


MONEY   MATTERS  185 

all  credit  business.  Bills  were  rendered  twice  a 
year,  or  even  once  a  year,  and,  when  rendered, 
often  remained  unpaid  for  another  six  months 
or  so.  As  accounts  went  David's  accounts  were 
satisfactory  to  the  merchants;  he  was  counted  a 
1 ' good"  customer.  His  indebtedness  had  grown 
slowly,  beginning  with  his  wife's  illness,  and  he 
had  run  in  debt  beyond  his  means  almost  without 
being  aware  of  it.  A  semiyearly  settling  period 
had  come  around,  and  he  had  found  himself  with- 
out sufficient  funds  to  pay  in  full,  as  he  usually 
did.  He  paid  what  he  could,  and  let  the  balance 
remain,  hoping  to  pay  in  full  at  the  next  settling 
period.  Instead  of  this  he  found  himself  still 
further  behind,  and  each  half  year  had  increased 
his  load  of  unpaid  bills. 

David  worried.  He  questioned  his  right  to 
think  the  church  did  not  pay  him  enough,  for  he 
received  as  much  as  any  other  minister  in  Eiver- 
bank,  and  more  than  most,  and  his  remunera- 
tion came  promptly  on  the  day  it  was  due,  and  was 
never  in  arrears,  as  was  the  case  with  at  least 
one  other.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  trustees  had 
several  times  advanced  him  money,  and  had  ad- 
vanced him  three  hundred  dollars  on  the  current 
quarter  year. 

The  dominie  felt  no  resentment  against  the 
church  or  the  trustees.  More  remunerative  pul- 
pits had  been  offered  him,  and  he  had  refused 
them  because  he  believed  his  work  lay  in  Eiver- 
bank.  Despite  all  this  he  could  not  accuse  him- 
self of  extravagance.  He  had  raised  two  children, 


186  DOMINIE   DEAN 

and  they  were  an  expense,  but  he  did  not  for  a 
moment  question  his  right  to  have  children.  He 
would  have  liked  a  half  dozen;  certainly  two — 
in  a  town  where  larger  families  were  the  rule — 
could  not  be  called  extravagant.  Neither  were 
they  extravagant  children.  Roger  had  been  given 
as  much  college  training  as  he  seemed  able  to 
bear,  and  had  been  economical  enough ;  Alice  had 
wished  for  college  but  had  been  compelled  to  be 
satisfied  with  graduation  from  the  Eiverbank 
High  School,  and  was  at  home  taking  the  place 
of  the  maid  David  felt  he  could  no  longer  afford. 
In  the  final  analysis,  David's  inability  to  make 
his  salary  meet  his  needs  resolved  itself  into  a 
matter  of  his  wife's  illness.  "Thusia,  once  the 
liveliest  of  girls,  was  now  practically  bedridden, 
although  she  could  be  brought  downstairs  now 
and  then  to  rest  on  a  divan  in  the  sitting  room. 
She  was  a  permanent  invalid  now,  but  a  cheerful 
one.  In  many  ways  she  was  more  helpful  to  David 
than  in  their  earlier  married  years;  her  advice 
was  good,  and,  with  Rose  Hinch  and  Mary 
Derling,  she  made  the  council  of  three  that  upheld 
David's  hands  in  his  works  of  charity  and  help-* 
fulness.  But  an  invalid  is,  however  helpful  her 
brain  may  be,  an  expense,  and  one  not  contem- 
plated by  trustees  when  they  set  a  minister's 
salary.  Certainly  'Thusia 's  illness  was  not  the 
fault  of  the  church,  but  it  was  the  cause  of  David's 
debts.  He  could  not  and  did  not  blame  the  church 
for  his  financial  condition,  nor  could  he  blame 
'Thusia.  Alice  was  doing  her  full  share  in  the 


MONEY   MATTERS  187 

house,  taking  the  maid's  place,  but  Roger — alas, 
Roger !  Roger,  the  well-beloved  son,  was  a  disap- 
pointment. He  now  had  a  "job,"  but  after 
David's  high  hopes  for  the  lad  the  place  Roger 
occupied  was  almost  humiliating.  David  felt  that 
Roger  probably  hardly  earned  the  four  dollars 
a  week  he  was  paid  by  his  grandfather,  old  Mr. 
Fragg.  He  no  longer  called  on  his  father  good- 
naturedly  for  funds,  but  he  still  lived  at  home, 
and  probably  would  as  long  as  the  home  existed. 

So  this  was  our  dominie  as  he  walked  through 
the  hot  Main  Street  on  his  way  to  see  Banker 
Burton,  now  his  most  influential  trustee.  Our 
David  was  but  slightly  round-shouldered ;  his  eyes 
still  clear  and  gray ;  hair  still  curled  gold ;  moutli 
refined  and  quick  to  smile;  brow  broad,  and  but 
little  creased.  His  entire  air  was  one  of  quick 
and  kindly  intelligence;  a  little  weary  after 
twenty-nine  years  of  ministry,  a  little  worn  by 
care,  but  our  Davy  still. 

I  remember  him  telling  me  how  the  passing  of 
the  old  and  staunch  friends  and  (occasional) 
enemies  affected  him — men  like  old  Sam  Wiggett 
— and  how  he  felt  less  like  a  child  of  the  patri- 
archs, and  more  like  something  bargained  and 
contracted  for.  This  was  said  without  bitter- 
ness ;  he  was  trying  to  let  me  know  what  an  im- 
portant part  in  his  younger  years  those  old  elders 
and  trustees  had  played.  They  never  quite 
stopped  thinking  of  David  as  the  boy  minister, 
and  to  David  they  remained  something  stern  and 
authoritative,  like  the  ancient  Biblical  patriarchs. 


188  DOMINIE   DEAN 

They  had  seemed  the  God-appointed  rulers  of  the 
church;  somehow  the  newer  trustees  and  elders, 
the  reason  for  the  choosing  of  each  of  whom  was 
known  to  David,  seemed  to  lack  something  of  the 
old  awesome  divine  right.  They  seemed  more 
ordinarily  human. 

"They  let  Lucille  Hardcome  walk  on  them,"  I 
told  David,  but  of  course  David  would  not  admit 
that. 

"Lucille  is  very  kind  to  'Thusia,"  he  said. 

Mary  Derling,  having  put  up  with  Derling 's 
infidelities  long  enough,  divorced  him.  Her  son 
Ben  was  now  a  young  man.  Mary  herself  was 
well  along  in  the  forties,  and  her  abiding  love  for 
David  Dean  glowed  in  good  works  year  after 
year,  and  in  the  affection  of  Mary,  "Thusia  and 
Rose  Hinch  David  felt  himself  blessed  above  most 
men.  Rose  was  the  best  nurse  in  Riverbank,  and 
those  who  could  secure  her  services  felt  that  the 
efficiency  of  their  physician  was  doubled.  She 
asked  an  honest  wage  from  those  who  could  afford 
it,  but  she  gave  much  of  her  time  to  David's  sick 
poor,  and  many  hours  to  investigating  poverty 
and  distress.  In  this  latter  work  Mary  Derling 
aided,  and  it  was  at  'Thusia 's  bedside  the  consul- 
tations were  held ;  for  'Thusia  was  no  longer  able 
to  leave  her  bed,  except  on  days  when  she  sat  in 
an  easy-chair,  or  could  be  carried  to  a  downstair 
couch.  In  a  long,  thin  book  'Thusia  kept  a  record 
of  needs  and  deeds.  David  called  it  his  "laundry 
list."  In  this  were  entered  the  souls  and  bodies 
that  needed  "doing  over" — souls  to  be  scrubbed 


MONEY   MATTERS  189 

and  bodies  to  be  starched  and  creases  to  be  ironed 
out  of  both. 

'Thusia  was  a  secretary  of  charities  always  to 
be  found  at  home.  Charity  work  soon  grows 
wearisome,  but  'Thusia  could  make  the  least  in- 
teresting cases  attractive  as  she  told  of  them. 
Each  page  of  her  "laundry  list*'  was  a  romance. 
'Thusia  not  only  interested  herself  but  she  kept 
interest  alive  in  others. 

And  Lucille!  Lucille  tried  honestly  enough  to 
be  useful  in  the  way  Eose  and  Mary  were  useful. 
As  the  years  passed  she  kept  up  all  her  number- 
less activities,  glowing  as  a  social  queen,  pushing 
forward  as  a  political  factor,  driving  the  church 
trustees,  ordering  the  music  and  cowing  the 
choir — she  was  in  everything  and  leading  every- 
thing, and  yet  she  was  discontented.  More  and 
more,  each  year,  she  came  to  believe  that  David 
Dean  was  the  man  of  all  men  whose  good  opinion 
she  desired,  and  it  annoyed  her  to  think  that  he 
valued  the  quiet  services  of  Mary  Derling  and 
Eose  Hinch  more  than  anything  Lucille  had  done 
or,  perhaps,  could  do.  She  was  like  a  child  in  her 
desire  for  words  of  commendation  from  David. 

As  David  Dean  mounted  the  three  steps  that 
led  up  to  the  bank  where  B.  C.  Burton  spent  his 
time  as  president,  Lucille  was  awaiting  him  in 
his  study  in  the  little  white  manse  on  the  hill. 


XIII 
A  SURPRISE 

BC.  BURTON,  the  president  of  the  River- 
side National  Bank,  was  a  widower,  and 
led  an  existence  that  can  be  described  as 
calmly  and  good-naturedly  detached.  He  was  a 
younger  son  of  a  father  long  since  dead,  who  had 
established  the  Burton,  Corley  &  Co.  bank,  which 
had  prospered,  and  finally  taken  a  national  bank- 
ing charter.  Corley  had  furnished  the  capital 
for  the  original  bank,  and  the  Burton  family  had 
run  the  business.  B.  C. — he  was  usually  called 
by  his  initials — had  married  Corley  's  only 
daughter,  and  had  thus  acquired  the  Corley 
money.  After  his  wife's  death  his  wealth  was 
estimated  as  a  hundred  thousand  dollars;  the 
truth  was  that  old  Corley  had  invested  badly,  and 
left  his  daughter  no  more  than  twenty-five  thou- 
sand. At  the  time  of  his  marriage  B.  C.  owned 
nothing  but  his  share  of  the  bank  stock,  worth 
about  twenty  thousand. 

In  spite  of  his  reputation  as  a  banker,  B.  C. 
was  a  poor  business  man  where  his  own  affairs 
were  concerned.  During  his  wife's  life  his  own 
bank  stock  increased  in  value  to  about  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars,  but  he  managed  to  lose  all  of 
the  twenty-five  thousand  his  wife  had  brought 

190 


A    SURPRISE  191 

him,  and  when  she  died  he  had  nothing  but  his 
house  and  his  bank  stock.  In  the  four  or  five 
years  since  his  wife's  death  he  had  continued  his 
misfortunes,  and  had  pledged  fifteen  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  his  bank  stock  to  old  Peter 
Grimsby,  one  of  the  bank's  directors.  Thus,  while 
Eiverbank  counted  B.  C.  Burton  a  wealthy  man, 
the  bank  president  was  worth  a  scant  ten  thousand 
dollars,  plus  a  house  worth  five  or  six  thousand. 
The  bank  stock  brought  him  six  per  cent,  and  his 
salary  was  two  thousand;  he  had  an  income  of 
about  twenty-six  hundred  dollars  which  the  town 
imagined  to  be  ten  or  fifteen  thousand. 

Being  a  childless  widower  he  could  live  well 
enough  on  his  income  in  Eiverbank,  but,  had  it 
not  been  for  his  placidity  of  temper,  he  would 
have  been  a  discontented  and  disappointed  man. 
Even  so  his  first  half  hour  after  awaking  in  the 
morning  was  a  bad  half  hour.  He  opened  his 
eyes  feeling  depressed  and  weary,  with  his  life 
an  empty  hull.  For  half  an  hour  he  felt  miserable 
and  hopeless ;  but  he  had  a  sound  body,  and  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  solid  breakfast  set  him  up  for  the 
day;  he  became  a  good-natured  machine  for  the 
transaction  of  routine  banking  business. 

Some  twist  of  humor  or  bit  of  carelessness  had 
marked  the  choice  of  the  names  of  the  two  Burton 
boys.  The  elder  had  been  named  Andrew  D., 
which  in  itself  was  nothing  odd ;  neither  was  there 
anything  odd  that  the  younger  should  have  been 
given  the  name  of  the  father 's  partner,  Benjamin 


192  DOMINIE   DEAN 

Corley;  but  the  town  was  quick  to  adopt  the  ini- 
tials— A.  D.  and  B.  C. — and  to  see  the  humor  in 
them,  and  the  two  men  were  ever  after  known  by 
them.  When  they  were  boys  they  were  nicknamed 
Anna  (for  Anno  Domini)  and  Beef  (for  Before 
Christ),  and  the  names  were  not  ill-chosen.  The 
elder  boy  was  as  nervous  as  a  girl,  and  Ben  was 
as  stolid  as  an  ox.  They  never  got  along  well 
together  and,  soon  after  B.  C.  entered  the  bank, 
A.  D. — who  had  been  cashier — left  it  and  went 
into  retail  trade. 

A.  D.  was  the  type  of  man  that  seems  smeared 
all  over  with  whatever  he  undertakes.  Had  he 
been  a  baker  he  would  have  been  covered  with 
flour  and  dough  from  head  to  foot — dough  would 
have  been  in  his  hair.  Had  B.  C.  been  a  baker  he 
would  have  emerged  from  his  day's  work  with- 
out a  fleck  of  flour  upon  him.  A.  D.  blundered  into 
things,  and  became  saturated  with  them;  B.  C.'s 
affairs  were  like  the  skin  of  a  ripe  tangerine — 
they  clothed  him  but  were  hardly  an  integral  part 
of  him.  Life 's  rind  fitted  him  loosely. 

When  David  Dean  entered  the  bank,  B.  C.  was 
closeted  with  a  borrower,  and  the  dominie  was 
obliged  to  wait  a  few  minutes.  He  stood  at  the 
window,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  gazing  into 
the  street,  and  trying  to  arrange  the  words  in 
which  he  would  ask  the  banker-trustee  for  the 
advance  he  desired.  The  door  to  the  banker's 
private  office  opened,  the  customer  came  out,  and 
the  door  closed  again.  A  minute  later  the  cashier 
told  David  he  might  enter. 


A    SURPRISE  193 

B.  C.  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  coatless  but  im- 
maculate. He  turned  and  smiled. 

* '  Good  morning,  Mr.  Dean, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Another 
good  corn  day.  You  and  I  don't  get  much 
pleasure  out  of  this  hot  weather,  I  am  afraid,  but 
it  is  money  in  the  farmers'  pockets." 

He  did  nothing  to  make  David 's  way  easy.  His 
very  smiling  good  nature  made  it  more  difficult. 
David  plunged  headlong  into  his  business. 

"Mr.  Burton,  could  you — do  you  think  the 
trustees  would — grant  me  a  further  advance  on 
my  salary1?" 

The  banker  showed  no  surprise,  no  resentment. 

"I  dislike  to  ask  it,"  David  continued.  "I  feel 
that  the  trustees  have  already  done  all  that  they 
should.  It  is  my  place  to  keep  within  my  income 
— that  I  know — but  I  seem  to  have  fallen  behind 
in  the  last  few  years.  I  have  had  to  run  into 
debt  to  some  extent.  There  is  one  debt  that 
should  be  paid;  it  should  be  paid  immediately; 
otherwise — " 

" Don't  stand,"  said  B.  C.,  touching  a  vacant 
chair  with  his  finger.  "Of  course  you  know  I 
am  only  one  of  the  trustees,  Mr.  Dean.  I  should 
not  pretend  to  give  you  an  answer  without  con- 
sulting the  others,  but  I  suppose  I  was  made  a 
trustee  because  I  know  something  of  business. 
They  seem  to  have  left  the  finances  of  the  church 
rather  completely  in  my  hands;  I  think  I  have 
brought  order  out  of  chaos.  Here  is  the  balance 
sheet,  brought  down  to  the  first  of  the  month." 

David  took  the  paper  and  stared  at  it,  but  the 


194  DOMINIE   DEAN 

figures  meant  nothing  to  him.  He  felt  already 
that  Burton  meant  to  refuse  his  request. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  B.  C.  said,  and  his  very  method 
of  handing  the  statement  to  David  and  then  tak- 
ing it  again  for  examination  was  characteristic. 
"Why,  we  are  in  better  shape  than  I  thought! 
This  is  very  good  indeed!  We  are  really  quite 
ahead  of  ourselves;  you  see  here  we  have  paid 
five  hundred  dollars  on  the  mortgage  a  full  six 
months  before  the  time  the  payment  was  due. 
And  here  is  payment  made  for  roofing  the  church, 
and  paid  promptly.  Usually  we  keep  our  bills 
waiting.  Then  here  is  the  advance  made  you. 
This  is  a  very  good  statement,  Mr.  Dean.  And 
now  let  me  see;  cash  on  hand?  Well,  that  item 
is  low;  very  low!  Twenty-eight  dollars  and  forty 
cents.  You  understand  that,  do  you!  That  is 
the  cash  we  have  available  for  all  purposes." 

He  had  not  refused  David;  he  had  shown  him 
that  his  request  could  not  be  granted. 

"Of  course,  then,"  said  David,  "the  trustees 
have  nothing  to  advance,  even  were  they  so  in- 
clined. I  thank  you  quite  as  much." 

"Now,  don't  hurry,"  said  B.  C.  "You  don't 
come  in  here  often,  and  when  you  do  I  ought  to 
be  able  to  spare  you  a  few  minutes.  Sit  down. 
At  our  last  meeting  the  trustees  were  speaking 
of  your  salary.  We  think  you  should  receive  more 
than  you  are  getting;  if  the  church  could  afford 
it  we  would  arrange  it  at  once,  but  you  know  how 
closely  we  have  to  figure  to  make  .ends  meet." 

"I  have  not  complained,"  said  David. 


A   SURPRISE  195 

"Indeed  not!  But  we  think  of  these  things; 
we  don't  forget  you,  you  see.  I  dare  say  we  know 
almost  as  much  about  your  affairs  as  you  know. 
I  believe  I  can  tell  you  the  name  of  the  creditor 
you  spoke  of.  It's  old  Herwig,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  B.  C.  "Of  course  I  knew 
you  traded  there,  and  it  is  a  good  thing  to  patron- 
ize our  own  church  members,  but  it  is  a  pity  we 
haven't  a  live  grocer  in  the  church.  I  had  to 
leave  Herwig;  my  housekeeper  couldn't  get  what 
she  wanted  there.  Now,  just  let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing, and  put  your  mind  at  rest:  if  you  paid 
Herwig  whatever  you  owe  him  you  might  as  well 
take  the  money  down  to  the  river  and  throw  it 
in!  Herwig  is  busted  right  now,  and  he  knows 
it.  If  he  collected  every  cent  due  him  he  would 
be  just  as  insolvent.  He  is  dead  of  dry  rot ;  it  is 
all  over  but  the  funeral.  The  only  reason  his 
creditors  haven't  closed  him  up  is  that  it  is  not 
worth  their  while;  I  don't  suppose  they'll  get  a 
cent  on  the  dollar.  So  don't  worry  about  him — 
he's  hopeless." 

"But  what  I  owe  him — " 

"Wouldn't  be  a  drop  in  the  bucket!"  said  B.  C. 
"Don't  worry  about  it.  Don't  think  about  it. 
And  now,  about  a  possible  increase  in  your  salary ; 
I  think  we  may  be  able  to  manage  that  before  long. 
Lucille  Hardcome  seems  to,  be  taking  a  great 
interest  in  your  outside  church  work." 

"She  seems  eager  to  give  all  the  help  she  can." 

"That's  good!    She  is  a  wealthy  woman,  Mr, 


196  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Dean;  wealthier  than  you  imagine,  I  believe.  Do 
what  you  reasonably  can  to  keep  up  her  interest. 
She  has  done  very  little  for  the  church  yet  in  a 
money  way.  She  can  easily  afford  to  do  as  much 
as  Mary  Derling  is  doing.  Of  course  we  under- 
stand she  has  had  great  expense  in  all  these  things 
she  is  doing;  that  house  done  over  and  all;  she 
has  probably  used  more  than  her  income,  but  she 
can't  get  much  more  into  the  house  without  build- 
ing an  addition.  She  is  thoroughly  Riverbank 
now,  and  we  have  let  her  take  a  prominent  part  in 
the  church  and  the  Sunday  school ;  she  owes  it  to 
us  to  give  liberally.  I  think  she  could  give  a 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  if  she  chose,  and  not 
feel  it.  The  hundred  she  gives  now  is  nothing; 
suppose  we  say  five  hundred  dollars.  If  we  can 
get  her  to  give  five  hundred  we  can  safely  add 
two  hundred  and  fifty  of  it  to  your  salary.  And 
you  deserve  it,  and  ought  to  have  it.  If  we  can 
add  that  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  your 
salary  during  my  trusteeship  I  shall  be  delighted. 
We  all  feel  that  way— all  the  trustees." 

"That  is  more  than  I  ever  dared  hope,"  said 
David.  "It  is  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it." 

"I  wish  we  could  make  it  a  thousand,"  said 
B.  C.  sincerely.  "Well,  I  don't  want  to  keep  you 
all  day  in  this  hot  office.  Just  humor  Lucille 
Hardcome  a  little;  she's  high-handed  but  I  think 
she  means  all  right." 

David  went  out.  The  sun  was  hotter  than  ever, 
but  for  a  block  or  two  he  did  not  notice  it.  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  increase!  It  would 


A   SURPRISE  197 

mean  that  in  a  few  years  he  could  be  even  with 
the  world  again!  Then,  as  he  toiled  up  the  hot 
hill,  his  immediate  needs  returned  to  his  mind, 
and  he  thought  of  Herwig.  Whether  th$  old 
grocer  must  inevitably  fail  in  business  or  not  the 
debt  David  owed  him  was  an  honestly  contracted 
debt,  and  the  old  man  had  a  right  to  expect  pay- 
ment; all  David's  creditors  had  a  right  to  expect 
payment.  His  horror  of  debt  returned  in  full 
force.  There  was  not  a  place  where  he  could  look 
for  a  dollar ;  he1  felt  bound  and  constrained,  guilty, 
shamed. 

Before  the  manse  Lucille  Hardcome's  low-hung 
carriage  stood.  He  entered  the  house. 

" David!"  called  'Thusia  from  the  sitting  room, 
and  he  hung  his  hat  on  the  rack  and  went  in  to 
her. 

"Lucille  is  waiting  in  the  study,"  said  'Thusia. 
"She  has  been  waiting  an  hour;  Alice  is  with 
her." 

"'Thusia,  what  has  happened?"  he  cried,  for 
his  wife 's  face  showed  she  had  received  a  blow. 

"Oh,  David!  David!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  is 
Alice!  She  is  engaged!" 

"Not  Alice!  Not  our  Alice!"  cried  David. 
"But—" 

'Thusia  burst  into  tears.  She  reached  for  his 
hand,  and  clung  to  it. 

"Oh,  David!  To  Lanny  Welsh — do  you  know 
anything  about  him?"  she  wept.  "I  don't  know 
anything  about  him  at  all,  except  he  was  a  bar- 
tender, and  Eoger  knows  him." 


198  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"Our  Alice?  Lanny  Welsh?"  said  David. 
' '  But  nothing  of  the  sort  can  be  allowed,  'Thusia. 
It  cannot  be!" 

"Oh,  I  hoped  you  would  say  that!"  said 
'Thusia.  "But  don't  wait  now.  Go  to  Lucille 
at  once!" 

So  David  bent  and  kissed  his  wife,  and  walked 
across  the  hall  to  his  study. 


XIV 
LUCILLE  HELPS 

THE  shock  of  his  wife's  news  regarding  Alice 
had  the  effect  of  a  slap  with  a  cold  towel, 
and  momentarily  surprised  David  Dean  out 
of  the  weary  depression  into  which  the  heat  of 
the  day,  his  inability  to  secure  an  advance  on  his 
salary  and  the  delay  in  his  midday  meal  had 
dragged  him.  A  blow  of  a  whip  could  not  have 
aroused  him  more.  Like  many  men  who  live  an 
active  mental  life,  he  was  accustomed  to  digging 
spurs  into  his  jaded  brain  when  and  where  neces- 
sity arose,  forcing  himself  to  attack  unexpected 
problems  with  a  vigor  that,  a  moment  before, 
seemed  impossible.  Neither  he  nor  'Thusia  had 
had  the  slightest  intimation  that  Alice  was  in  love, 
or  in  any  way  in  danger  of  engaging  herself  to 
Lanny  Welsh.  The  event,  as  David  saw  it,  would 
be  most  unfortunate.  He  had  heard  Roger  men- 
tion the  young  fellow's  name  now  and  then,  and 
perhaps  Alice  had  discussed  Lanny 's  ball  playing 
with  Roger  in  the  presence  of  her  parents ;  David 
could  not  remember.  He  entered  his  study 
briskly.  The  matters  in  hand  were  simple 
enough ;  he  would  get  through  with  Lucille  Hard- 
come  as  quickly  as  possible,  remembering 
Burton's  suggestion  that  some  attention  should 

199 


200  DOMINIE    DEAN 

be  paid  her.  This  would  release  Alice  for  the 
moment,  and  she  could  get  the  dinner  on  the  table, 
for  the  dominie  was  thoroughly  hungry.  After 
dinner  he  would  have  a  talk  with  Alice,  and  he 
had  no  doubt  she  would  explain  her  engagement, 
and  that  he  would  find  it  less  serious  than  'Thusia 
imagined. 

When  David  entered  the  study  Alice,  who  had 
been  curled  up  in  his  easy-chair,  unwound  herself 
and  prepared  for  flight.  She  was  in  a  happy 
mood,  and  kissed  Lucille  and  then  her  father. 

"No  doubt  you  know  that  Dominie  Dean  is 
about  starved,  Alice,"  her  father  said.  "I'll  be 
ready  for  dinner  when  dinner  is  ready  for  me. 
If  Mrs.  Hardcome  and  I  are  not  through  when 
you  are  ready  for  me  perhaps  she  will  take  a  bite 
with  us." 

"I  shan't  be  long,"  said  Lucille.  "I  waited 
because — " 

Alice  slipped  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
and  Lucille,  as  if  Alice 's  going  had  rendered  un- 
necessary the  giving  of  a  reason,  left  her  sentence 
unfinished.  She  was  sitting  in  the  dominie 's  desk 
chair  with  one  braceleted  arm  resting  on  the  desk, 
her  hand  on  a  sheet  of  sermon  paper  that  lay 
there.  She  picked  it  up  now. 

"I  couldn't  help  seeing  this,  Mr.  Dean,"  she 
said.  ' '  'Thusia  was  asleep  when  I  came,  and 
Alice  brought  me  in  here  and  left  me  when  she 
went  about  her  dinner-getting.  I  saw  it  without 
intending  to." 

David  colored.    The  paper  contained  a  schedule 


LUCILLE   HELPS  201 

of  his  debts,  scribbled  down  that  morning.  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

"It  was  not  meant  to  be  seen,"  he  said.  "I 
should  have  put  it  in  the  drawer. " 

Lucille  ignored  the  hand. 

"It  was  because  I  saw  it  I  waited,"  she  said. 
"This  is  what  has  been  worrying  you." 

"Worrying  me?" 

"Of  course  I  have  noticed  it,"  she  said.  "You 
have  been  so  different  the  last  month  or  two;  I 
knew  you  had  something  on  your  mind,  and  I 
knew  dear  'Thusia  was  no  worse.  You  must  not 
worry.  You  are  too  important ;  we  all  depend  on 
you  too  much  to  have  you  worrying  about  such 
things.  Please  wait!  I  know  how  stingy  the 
church  is  with  you — yes,  stingy  is  the  word! — 
and  Mr.  Burton  with  no  thought  but  to  pay  the 
church  debt,  whether  you  starve  or  not.  These 
financier-trustees — ' ' 

"But  the  church  is  not  stingy,  Mrs.  Hardcome 
— indeed  it  is  not.  I  have  been  careless — " 

"Nonsense!  On  your  salary?  With  a  sick 
wife  and  two  children  and  all  the  expenses  of  a 
house?  Well,  you  shall  not  worry  about  it  any 
longer.  I'll  take  care  of  this,  Mr.  Dean." 

She  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  her  purse. 

"But  I  can't  let  you  do  this,"  said  David.  "I 
— do  you  mean  you  intend  to  pay  for  me?  I  can't 
permit  that,  of  course.  I  know  how  kind  you  are 
to  suggest  it,  but  I  certainly  cannot  allow  any 
such  thing." 

Lucille  laughed. 


202  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"Please  listen,  Mr.  Dean!  Do  you  think  I 
haven't  seen  Mr.  Burton  looking  at  me  with  his 
thousand-dollar  eyes?  I  know  what  he  expects 
of  me;  I've  heard  hints,  you  may  be  sure.  And 
no  doubt  he  is  right;  I  ought  to  give  more  to  the 
church  than  I  do.  And  I  mean  to  give  more;  I 
meant  to  give  a  thousand  dollars — subscribe  that 
much  annually — and  I  have  been  waiting  for  the 
trustees  to  come  to  me.  So  you  see,  don't  you, 
I  am  doing  no  more  than  I  intended?  Only  I 
choose  to  give  it  direct  to  you." 

David  dropped  into  his  easy-chair  and  leaned 
his  head  against  his  slender  hand,  as  was  his 
unconscious  habit  when  he  thought.  To  get  his 
debts  paid  would  mean  everything  to  him,  and, 
as  Lucille  explained  it,  she  would  be  merely  giving 
what  she  had  intended  to  give.  But  had  he  a 
right  to  take  the  sum  when  she  had  meant  to 
give  it  to  the  church?  If  she  gave  it  to  the  church 
the  trustees,  as  Burton  had  said,  would  set  aside 
a  part  for  him  as  an  increase  of  his  salary,  but 
Burton  was  clear  enough  in  suggesting  that  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year  more  was  what 
they  thought  Dean  should  receive  out  of  whatever 
Lucille  might  give.  If  he  took  the  entire  thousand 
would  he  not  be  breaking  a  tacit  agreement  made 
with  the  banker?  One  thing  was  certain,  he  would 
not  accept  charity  from  Lucille  or  from  anyone; 
it  would  be  disgraceful.  And  if  the  thousand 
dollars  went  through  the  proper  channel  the  most 
he  could  expect  was  a  quarter  of  the  sum.  If 


LUCILLE    HELPS  203 

he  took  it  all  he  would  be  robbing  the  church.  He 
raised  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  can't  take  it.  I  can't 
permit  it." 

"Then  I  give  not  a  cent  more  to  the  church 
than  I  am  giving  now!"  said  Lucille.  "You  see 
I  have  made  up  my  mind.  This  year  I  want  you 
to  have  the  thousand,  Mr.  Dean:  Next  year,  and 
other  years,  the  trustees  can  do  as  they  please." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Lucille  meant  it. 
She  was  headstrong  and  accustomed  to  over- 
riding opposition:  to  having  her  own  way.  The 
horns  of  the  dominie's  dilemma  were  two:  he 
must  sacrifice  his  proper  pride  and  take  her  money 
— which  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do — or 
he  must  lose  the  church  the  additional  income  he 
had  been  urged  by  Burton  to  try  to  secure.  His 
duty  to  his  manhood  demanded  that  he  refuse 
Lucille 's  offer;  his  duty  to  his  church  demanded 
that  he  secure  her  increased  monetary  support 
if  possible. 

"You  are  kind,  and  I  know  your  suggestion  is 
kindly  meant,  Mrs.  Hardcome,"  he  said.  "I 
admit  that  my  debts  do  worry  me — they  worry 
me  more  than  I  dare  say — but,  if  your  generosity 
is  such  as  I  believe  it  to  be,  my  case  is  not  hope- 
less." He  smiled.  "May  I  speak  as  frankly  as 
you  have  spoken?  Then,  I  do  not  find  my  salary 
quite  enough  for  my  needs,  but — except  for  one 
creditor — no  one  is  pressing  me.  I,  and  not  they, 
am  doing  the  worrying.  Well,  my  trustees  have 
promised  me  an  ample  increase  as  soon  as  the 


204  DOMINIE    DEAN 

church  income  warrants  it.  To  be  quite  frank, 
if  you  should  give — as  you  have  suggested — a 
thousand  dollars  annually,  or  even  half  that  sum, 
my  stipend  will  be  increased  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  No,  wait  one  moment!  With 
such  economies  as  I  can  initiate  that  would 
permit  me  to  be  quite  out  of  debt  in  a  very  few 
years." 

"If  I  were  in  your  place,"  said  Lucille  frankly, 
"I  would  prefer  to  get  out  of  debt  to-day." 

"But  I  repeat,"  said  David,  "I  cannot  take  the 
money. ' ' 

"Very  well,"  said  Lucille  haughtily,  and  she 
opened  her  purse  and  placed  the  schedule  of  debts 
on  the  dominie 's  desk.  She  arose  and  David 
also.  "I'll  tell  you  plainly,  Mr.  Dean,  that  I  think 
you  are  foolish." 

"Not  foolish  but,  perhaps,  reluctant  to  accept 
personal  charity,"  said  Dean. 

Lucille  was  not  stupid,  but  she  looked  into  his 
eyes  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"Oh,  it  is  that  way,  is  it!"  she  said  cheerfully, 
"Yes,  I  understand!  But  that  is  quite  beside 
the  point  I  had  in  mind.  I  did  not  want  you  to 
feel  that  at  all!  Of  course  you  would  feel  that! 
It  is  quite  right.  But  we  can  arrange  all  that 
very  easily,  Mr.  Dean;  we  can  make  it  a  loan — 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  accept  a 
loan  as  well  as  any  other  man.  I'll  lend  you  the 
money — temporarily — and  when  your  increase  of 
salary  comes  you  can  pay  it  back.  With  interest, 
if  you  wish." 


LUCILLE    HELPS  205 

"If  I  could  make  the  payments  quarterly,  on 
my  salary  days — "  hesitated  David. 

11  Certainly!"  cooed  Lucille,  delighted  to  have 
won  her  point.  "It  can  be  that  way." 

"I  should  like  the  transaction  to  be  regular; 
a  note  with  interest.  Seven  per  cent  is  usual,  I 
believe." 

"Certainly.  You  see,"  she  beamed,  "how  easy 
it  is  for  reasonable  people  to  arrange  things  when 
they  understand  what  they  are  trying  to  get  at! 
And  now  I  must  go ;  you  are  starved.  I  will  come 
again  this  afternoon;  I  will  bring  you  the  money 
and  the  note.  You  see  we  are  quite  businesslike, 
Mr.  Dean.  Well,  I  have  to  be ;  I  manage  my  own 
affairs.  I'll  just  run  in  a  moment  to  see  'Thusia 
before  I  go.  And — I  almost  forgot  it — congratu- 
lations!" 

' '  Congratulations  I ' ' 

* '  Alice !    She  told  me !    I  am  so  glad ! ' ' 

David  did  not  know,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
what  to  say.  Before  he  could  formulate  words 
Lucille,  jingling  her  bracelets  and  rustling  her 
silks,  had  swept  voluminously  from  the  room. 


XV 
LANNY 

ON  those  days  when  "Thusia  was  able  to  be 
downstairs  Alice  set  a  small  dinner  table 
in  the  sitting  room  so  that  she  might  enjoy 
the  company  of  her  husband  and  children.  When 
David  entered  the  sitting  room  Lucille  had  de- 
parted, and  Roger  was  there,  waiting  for  his 
belated  dinner.  Luckily  his  labors  were  not  of 
sufficient  importance  to  require  prompt  hours — 
his  dinner  hour  sometimes  lasted  the  best  half  of 
the  afternoon.  As  David  entered  the  room  Alice 
ran  to  him,  and  threw  her  arms  around  him; 
he  could  do  no  less  than  embrace  her,  for  any- 
thing else  would  have  been  like  a  slap  in  the 
face.  He  kissed  her,  but  his  face  was  grave. 

"Father!  Mother  told  you?"  Alice  said,  still 
holding  him.  " Aren't  you  surprised?  Why," 
she  pouted,  "you  don't  look  a  bit  happy!  But  I 
know  why — you  don't  know  Lanny.  They  don't 
know  him,  do  they,  pop?" 

Her  brother,  who  had  already  taken  his  place  at 
the  small  table,  fidgeted.  He  was  hungry. 

"He's  all  right!"  he  said.    "Lanny's  fine." 

Somehow  the  young  Roger's  approval  did  not 
carry  far  with  David. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "we  are  all  hungry.    tWe 


LANNY  207 

will  have  our  food,  and  discuss  Alice's  affairs 
later.  I  know  I  am  too  hungry  to  want  to  talk." 

"And  you  aren't  even  going  to  congratulate 
me!"  pouted  Alice  playfully. 

The  dominie  cut  short  further  talk  by  saying 
grace,  following  it  by  the  operation  of  serving 
food  from  the  dishes  that  were  grouped  around 
his  plate,  and  then: 

"How  is  your  grandfather,  Boger?" 

"Fine  as  a  fiddle,  father.  And,  I  say!  we  are 
going  to  play  Derlingport  this  Saturday.  We've 
arranged  a  series  of  three  games,  unless  one  or 
the  other  of  us  wins  the  first  two.  We  play  the 
first  here,  and  the  second  in  Derlingport.  Hon- 
estly, I  am  glad  to  play  a  nine  I'm  a  bit  afraid 
of;  this  licking  the  spots  off  the  grangers  is 
getting  monotonous.  Derlingport  has  a  pitcher 
that  knows  his  business — Watts.  But  I'll  chance 
Lanny  against  him  any  day." 

"I  should  think  so!"  said  Alice. 

1 l  Oh,  you ! ' '  said  Eoger.  '  *  Because  he  has  curly 
hair?  A  lot  you  know  about  pitchers." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  learn,"  said  Alice. 

David  broke  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

"'Thusia,"  he  said,  "I  have  arranged  to  clear 
up  the  bills  we  owe." 

"David!"  his  wife  exclaimed,  her  pale  cheeks 
coloring  with  pleasure.  "Did  the  trustees  grant 
the  advance  on  your  salary!" 

"No,  hardly  that,"  he  answered.  "I  saw  Bur- 
ton, but  there  is  no  money  available.  He  was  very 
kind.  The  trustees  are  going  to  give  me  an  in- 


208  DOMINIE    DEAN 

crease  of  salary — two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
more.  It  will  be  a  great  help.  You  see,  with  the 
increase,  I  can  pay  off  the  loan  I  am  contracting 
in  two  or  three  years." 

'Thusia  looked  frightened. 

"A  loan?    Are  you  borrowing  money,  David?" 

"Lucille  Hardcome  offered  it;  she  practically 
forced  me  to  accept  it,  'Thusia.  It  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  her  from  forcing  it  on  me  as  a  gift. 
That  I  would  not  hear  of,  of  course." 

"How  much  are  you  borrowing?"  asked 
'Thusia,  with  an  intake  of  breath. 

"It  will  be  about  a  thousand  dollars;  a  thou- 
sand, I  think." 

*  *  She  could  hand  you  ten  thousand  and  not  feel 
it,  from  what  I  hear,"  said  Roger. 

"  'Thusia,  you  don't  approve?"  asked  David. 

"Oh,  I  wish  it  could  have  been  anyone  but 
Lucille!"  said  'Thusia.  "It  seems  so—  But  I 
know  so  little  of  money  matters.  You  would  do 
what  was  best,  of  course,  David.  It  will  be  a  great 
blessing  to  feel  we  are  not  making  the  tradesmen 
wait  for  what  is  honestly  theirs." 

"I  should  have  consulted  you,"  David  said, 
entirely  without  irony,  for  he  did  consult  her  on 
most  matters  of  importance.  "It  is  not  too  late 
to  decline  even  now.  I  have  not  signed  the  note. 
She  is  to  bring  the  money  this  afternoon.  But, 
if  I  refuse—" 

He  related  his  conversation  with  Lucille,  as  well 
as  he  could  recall  it. 

"I  hardly  see  how  you  could  refuse,"  'Thusia 


LANNY  209 

admitted.  "If  she  was  angered  she  would  do 
something  to  show  her  displeasure.  Deep  as  she 
is  in  the  church  affairs  I  hardly  feel  that  she  is 
with  us  heart  and  soul  yet.  She  always  seems 
like  an  outsider  taking  an  interest  because — I 
shouldn't  say  it — she  likes  the  prominence.  That 
is  why  I  wish  you  could  have  had  the  money  from 
another.  I'm  sure  Mary  would  have  lent  it.*' 

"And  of  all  the  women  I  know,"  said  David, 
"Mary  is  the  last  I  should  wish  to  borrow  from. 
Had  I  my  choice  I  would  choose  an  entire  out- 
sider; the  more  completely  it  is  a  business  tran- 
saction the  more  pleased  I  am." 

No  more  was  said  then.  Roger  hurried  away, 
not  because  his  job  called  him,  but  because,  as 
catcher  of  his  nine,  it  was  his  duty  to  keep  in 
practice;  and  some  members  of  the  nine  might 
be  on  the  levee  willing  to  pitch  to  him.  Alice  still 
waited. 

"Will  you  let  me  speak  with  your  mother 
awhile,  daughter?"  David  said.  "Then  we  will 
call  you." 

"Shall  I  take  the  dishes  out  first?"  asked  Alice. 

"Yes." 

'Thusia  raised  herself  a  little  on  her  pillows 
when  Alice  had  quitted  the  room,  and  David  drew 
a  chair  to  the  side  of  her  couch.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments they  were  silent. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  David  asked  finally. 

"David,  you  must  not  think  unkindly  of  her; 
Alice  is  such  a  child — such  a  dear  girl!  She  has 
no  worldliness ;  how  should  she  have  with  you  and 


210  DOMINIE    DEAN 

me  for  her  parents  ?  I  think  I  am  to  blame  if  she 
has  chosen  wrongly.  I  am  afraid  I  have  neg- 
lected her,  David." 

"What  an  idea,  'Thusia!  That  is  preposter- 
ous. Of  course,  I  do  not  think  unkindly  of  her; 
but  I  do  think  she  has  chosen  foolishly,  as  girls 
sometimes  will." 

"Yes,  but  I  mean  what  I  say,  David.  I  am 
tied  here,  of  course,  but  I  have  given  her  so  much 
freedom.  I  have  trusted  to  her  instinct  to  choose 
suitable  companions,  when  I  should  have  remem- 
bered how  careless  and  foolish  I  was  when  I  was 
her  age." 

' '  What  nonsense,  dear ! ' '  said  David.  '  *  If  any- 
one is  to  blame  it  is  myself.  How  could  you  do 
any  more  than  you  have  done,  kept  close  here  as 
you  are  1  How  serious  is  it,  'Thusia  t ' ' 

"I  have  hardly  had  time  to  decide;  I  am  afraid 
it  is  very  serious.  She  was  all  ecstasy  and  happi- 
ness until  she  saw  I  was  not  as  happy  as  she  was. 
I  am  afraid  I  let  her  see  it  too  plainly.  We  must 
not  let  her  think  we  are  angry  with  her,  David; 
she  is  very  much  in  love  with  him.  Oh,  she 
praised  him  as  a  girl  will  praise  a  lover — her  first 
lover!" 

"I  suppose  she  met  him  through  Roger,"  said 
David  thoughtfully. 

"No,"  'Thusia  said.  "I  imagine  Alice  rather 
scorns  Roger's  ball-playing  friends.  I  think 
Lanny  Welsh  called  something  after  her  one  eve- 
ning when  she  was  passing  the  Eagle  office — pass- 
ing the  alley  there.  He  thought  she  was  some 


LANNY  211 

other  girl,  I  suppose.  She  was  furious;  she 
thought  it  was  the  rudest  thing  she  had  ever 
known,  but  the  next  time  she  passed  he  stopped 
her  and  apologized.  She  thinks  it  was  noble  of 
him.  After  that  he  tipped  his  hat  whenever  she 
passed,  and  she  nodded  to  him.  Then  Roger  in- 
troduced them.  Lanny  Welsh  asked  him  to,  I  sup- 
pose. Now  they  are  engaged." 

David  rested  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  was 
silent.  'Thusia  watched  his  face. 

"It  is  unfortunate;  most  unfortunate,"  he  said 
wearily. 

11  David,  do  you  know  anything  about  him  I" 
'Thusia  asked. 

"Only  hearsay,"  he  answered. 

"Has  he  been  a  bartender?" 

"I  have  heard  that.  You  know  what  his  father 
is — little  better  than  a  blackmailer." 

"David,  what  can  we  do?"  asked  'Thusia. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "No  doubt  she 
would  give  him  up  if  we  asked  it." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  'Thusia.  "She 
is  a  good  girl,  but  you  do  not  realize  how  she  loves 
the  boy — or  thinks  she  loves  him.  She  might 
think  we  were  unjust  to  him." 

What  she  implied  David  knew.  Alice  was, 
above  all  else,  loyal.  The  very  intimation  that 
Lanny  Welsh  lacked  friends  might  strengthen 
her  partisanship,  for  she  was  like  her  father  in 
having  always  a  kindly  feeling  for  the  under  dog. 
The  most  uncompromised  earthly  happiness  is 
not  the  portion  of  those  who  feel  for  the  under 


212  DOMINIE   DEAN 

dog,  for  some  dog  is  always  under.  If  a  person 
is  to  take  any  interest  in  the  world's  dog  fights, 
and  seek  enjoyment  therefrom,  he  must  be 
thoroughly  callous,  and  not  care  a  snap  of  his 
fingers  what  happens  to  the  under  dog.  This 
hard-hearted  placidity  must  yield  those  who  pos- 
sess it  a  fund  of  unvexed  joy;  most  of  us  find 
our  joy  alloyed  by  our  pity  for  Fortune's  un- 
favorites.  A  fair  amount  of  carelessness  regard- 
ing the  under  dog  is  necessary  for  the  most  com- 
plete worldly  success;  and  our  dominie,  seeking 
to  know  himself,  felt  that  if  he  had  desired  to 
prosper  greatly  in  a  worldly  way  he  should  have 
been  born  without  his  keen  desire  to  see  the  under 
dog  on  top  for  a  while,  or  at  least  without  his 
inclination  to  prevent  all  dog  fights. 

On  the  whole  he  did  not  think,  however,  that  the 
callous-hearted  got  the  best  out  of  life.  The  tough 
tympanum  of  a  bass  drum  yields  one  sound,  and 
the  tom-tom  may  be  a  fine  instrument  for  war  or 
joy  dances,  but  a  delicately  attuned  violin  quivers 
with  more  varied  vibrations,  and  even  the  minor 
chords  must  satisfy  some  of  its  fibers.  In  the  mu- 
seum of  eternity  the  tom-tom  may  have  a  place  as 
a  curiosity — as  the  musical  instrument  of  a  crude 
people — but  even  a  child  can  imagine  its  one  note ; 
the  fingers  of  the  virtuoso  tingle  to  touch  the  glass- 
enclosed  violin,  and  the  imagination  pleasures  in 
the  thought  of  the  notes  of  joy  and  sorrow  it  has 
given  forth  in  its  day. 

Youth — as  Alice — when  born  and  brought  up 
with  a  pity  for  the  despised  is  apt  to  carry  the 


LANNY  213 

good  quality  over  the  line  so  far  that  it  becomes 
unreasonable.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  innate 
devilishness  that  deserves  chastisement;  some  of 
the  things  other  men  scorn  deserve  our  scorn  also ; 
some  men  and  women,  too.  But  a  girl  in  love, 
as  Alice  was,  or  thought  she  was,  is  not  a  very 
reasonable  being.  With  her  love  as  a  certainty, 
she  scorns  the  past  and  sees  perfection  in  the 
future.  Young  lovers  are  all  egotists  to  the  ex- 
tent of  thinking :  "  If  I  chose  him  he  must  be  good 
at  heart  and,  no  doubt,  his  past  weakness  was  be- 
cause he  had  not  known  me."  In  herself  she  sees 
his  needed  opportunity,  and  her  loyalty  to  her 
ideal  of  herself  and  to  him  resents  the  interfer- 
ence of  those  who  would  interpose  obstacles. 
Alice,  being  by  nature  loyal,  and  by  nature  and 
training  inclined  to  pity,  might  easily  be  driven 
to  a  blind  and  gently  berserk,  but  none  the  less 
everlasting,  battle  for  Lanny  Welsh  by  the  very 
opposition  that  sought  to  win  her  away  from  him. 
David  was  the  less  inclined  to  do  anything  in- 
stantly because  his  sense  of  justice  was  so  strong. 
He  knew  too  little  about  Lanny  Welsh  to  condemn 
the  young  man  in  his  own  mind  without  further 
facts.  Had  he  had  the  giving  he  would  not  have 
presented  Alice  to  anyone  like  Lanny,  for  he 
would  have  chosen  some  youth  he  knew  better — 
and  that  meant  Mary  Derling's  boy  Ben — but, 
having  his  innate  desire  to  do  justice  to  all  men, 
and  as  Alice  had  already  chosen  Lanny,  David 
felt  he  should  learn  more  about  Lanny  before  he 
made  an  absolute  decision  to  oppose  his 


214  DOMINIE   DEAN 

daughter's  choice.  He  knew  enough  of  men  and 
life  to  believe  the  tags  the  world  put  on  young 
fellows  were  not  always  the  proper  tags.  If  the 
match  was  to  be  opposed  the  method  of  opposi- 
tion to  be  adopted  would  depend  on  his  knowl- 
edge of  Lanny 's  character  and  circumstances,  and 
as  yet  he  knew  little — too  little  to  base  an  active 
opposition  upon. 

1  'What  have  you  said  to  her,  'Thusia?"  he 
asked. 

"I  told  her  I  was  surprised,  and  that  I  must 
speak  to  you  before  I  could  be  sure  what  to  say." 

This  was  close  enough  to  the  fact.  The  saying 
had  taken  an  hour  or  more  and  had  been  flavored 
by  affectionate  weepings  and  embraces,  but  in 
what  she  told  David  'Thusia  did  not  miss  the  fact 
far. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said.  "I'll  ask  Alice 
to  come  in." 

She  came,  rosy-cheeked  and  tremulously  happy, 
and  the  interview  left  her  happy  and  less  tremu- 
lous. Of  her  father's  affection  she  was  sure,  and 
of  his  justice  she  never  had  a  doubt.  She  was  not 
surprised  that  he  should  wish  to  know  more  of 
Lanny  before  he  ventured  to  feel  enthusiastic 
about  the  engagement,  and  she  was  so  sure  Lanny 
was  the  best  of  men  that  she  had  no  fear  of  the 
final  result  of  her  father's  gentle  investigations. 
From  an  interview  so  kindly,  and  permeated  with 
affection,  she  went  back  to  the  kitchen  happily. 

"I  imagine  you'll  have  very  little  trouble  in 
finding  out  all  about  him, ' '  'Thusia  said,  and  then, 


LANNY  215 

her  bravery  shattering  itself  a  little  against  her 
motherly  ambition:  "David,  I'm  sure  it  is  a  mis- 
take! I'm  sure  she  should  not  marry  him!" 

"I  am  afraid  Alice  has  been  too  hasty,"  said 
David. 

They  both  meant  the  same  thing :  nothing  more 
unfortunate  could  have  happened.  'Thusia  gave 
words  to  one  of  the  reasons  when  she  added : 

"Mary  will  be  so  disappointed!" 

Not  a  word  had  ever  been  said  on  the  subject, 
but  the  tacit  hope  had  long  been  existent  in  the 
hearts  of  Mary  and  the  two  Deans  that  Alice  and 
Ben  Derling  might  become  lifemates.  Until 
Alice  had  dropped  the  bombshell  of  her  engage- 
ment into  the  placidly  intrenched  hope  everything 
had  seemed  trending  that  way.  There  was  no 
question  that  Ben  admired  Alice,  and  Alice  had 
seemed  fond  enough  of  Ben. 

Although  David  had  never  allowed  the  filmy 
intuition  to  become  an  actual  thought,  the  gos- 
samer suggestion  had  floated  across  his  mind 
more  than  once  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if 
Alice  and  Ben  married.  He  thought,  boldly 
enough,  that  it  would  be  a  suitable  match  in  some 
ways — marrying  in  the  same  faith ;  marrying  one 
who  wQuld  be  a  good  husband;  marrying  one 
whose  social  position  in  Riverbank  would  increase 
rather  than  lower  David's  own  capacity  for  good 
in  the  community.  Of  the  marriage  as  a  financial 
matter  beneficial  to  himself  and  'Thusia  he  re- 
fused to  think,  but  that  gossamer  ghost  of  thought 
would  come  floating  by  at  times :  an  alliance  with 


216  DOMINIE   DEAN 

the  Derling  wealth  would  make  old  age  less  to  be 
dreaded;  somewhere  there  would  be  food  and 
winter  warmth  and  a  nook  by  the  fireside,  where 
he  and  'Thusia  might  end  their  days  without 
dire  penury  in  case,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with 
ministers,  he  outlived  his  usefulness.  He  felt 
the  thought,  gossamer  light  as  it  was,  to  be  un- 
worthy, but  it  came  unbidden,  and  there  was  com- 
fort in  it.  And  no  man  is  a  worse  man  for  not 
wishing  to  end  his  life  in  an  almshouse.  Cer- 
tainly no  man  is  a  better  man  for  wishing  to  end 
his  days  on  the  Riverbank  Poor  Farm.  The 
youth,  Roger,  unluckily,  seemed  little  likely  to  be 
able  to  support  himself;  if  Alice  married  into 
poverty,  or  worse,  the  state  of  the  family  in  days 
to  come  threatened  to  be  sad  indeed. 

But  David  went  back  to  his  study  in  hopeful- 
ness, for  all  that.  Lanny  Welsh  might  be  better 
than  he  feared,  and  if  Lucille  Hardcome  sub- 
scribed even  half  what  she  had  suggested  David 
might  be  able  to  keep  even  with  the  world  or  even 
save  a  little.  He  had  hardly  entered  his  study 
before  Lanny  Welsh  and  Alice  came  tapping  on 
his  door. 


XVI 
AN  INTERVIEW 

IN  a  small  town  men  find  themselves  tagged 
far  sooner  and  far  more  permanently  than 
in  the  large  cities.  Let  a  young  fellow  at- 
tend church  for  a  few  weeks,  behave  decently 
for  a  year,  and  get  a  job  as  soon  as  one  offers, 
and  he  is  tagged  as  a  "good"  young  man;  there- 
after it  requires  quite  a  little  rascality  to  convince 
people  he  is  otherwise.  The  small  town  is  like 
a  pack  of  cards ;  the  rank  of  the  components  being 
once  established,  it  is  vain  for  them  to  attempt 
other  values.  Let  young  Bud  Smith  start  out  as 
a  Jack-of-all-trades,  and  he  is  expected  to  remain 
one;  and  when  he  attempts  steady  work  of  one 
kind,  his  efforts  are  talked  about  as  something 
phenomenal.  If  Bill  Jones,  the  contractor,  gives 
Bud  a  job  it  is  considered  a  bit  of  eccentricity  on 
Jones'  part;  what  reason  can  a  man  have  for 
taking  on  a  Jack-of-all-trades  as  a  steady  car- 
penter? It  might  be  just  as  well  to  be  a  little 
careful  in  making  contracts  with  Jones;  it  looks 
as  if  he  was  a  little  too  easy-going !  Thus  Jones 
gets  his  tag,  and  Bud  Smith  does  not  lose  his. 
They  cling. 

Something  of  this  sort  had  happened  to  Lanny 
Welsh.    His  father,  old  P.  K.  Welsh,  was  an  old- 

217 


218  DOMINIE   DEAN 

time  character  in  Riverbank.  For  years  he  had 
been  a  familiar  figure,  trudging  about  town  with 
his  stooped  shoulders,  his  long  and  greasy  black 
coat  and  his  long  and  pointed  beard.  His  head 
was  a  little  too  large  for  his  body,  and  his  eyes, 
seen  through  his  spectacles,  were  apparently  too 
large  for  his  face.  They  were  blue.  His  hair 
often  hung  down  upon  his  collar.  Once  a  year  or 
so  he  had  it  cut,  and  when  he  had  it  cut  he  had 
it  cut  short  enough  to  last  awhile.  The  change 
was  as  noticeable  as  if  a  large  building  had  been 
torn  down  from  one  of  the  prominent  Main  Street 
corners. 

In  the  side  pockets  of  old  P.  K.  Welsh's  coat 
were  always  bundles  of  folded  newspapers — his 
pockets  bulged  with  them.  He  was  a  newspaper 
man.  Day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  old  P.  K. 
Welsh  trudged  up  and  down  the  two  business 
streets  of  Biverbank,  from  eight  in  the  morning 
until  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon,  and  so  he 
had  trudged  for  years.  Thursday  was  an  excep- 
tion, for  on  Thursday  he  " published,"  running 
off  the  one  or  two  hundred  copies  of  the  Declara- 
tor that  constituted  his  edition.  The  paper  was 
a  weekly,  five  cents  a  copy,  one  dollar  a  year,  and 
the  total  income  from  subscriptions  was  probably 
never  more  than  one  hundred  dollars.  This  did 
not  pay  for  his  paper  and  ink,  and  he  tried  to 
make  up  the  difference  in  advertising  income; 
but  as  an  advertising  medium  the  Declarator  was 
not  worth  the  paper  on  which  it  was  printed,  and 
everyone  knew  it.  He  spent  his  life  nagging  the 


AN   INTERVIEW  219 

merchants  into  throwing  him  crumbs  of  petty 
patronage;  His  credit  was  nil,  he  never  had  any 
cash,  he  gave  all  his  advertising  in  exchange  for 
trade.  When  he  sallied  forth  in  the  morning 
he  carried  a  list  of  the  groceries  his  wife  needed ; 
getting  them  for  her  meant  nagging  some  grocer 
until  he  agreed  to  send  up  the  groceries  in  ex- 
change for  a  few  inches  of  unwanted  advertising 
space  in  the  Declarator.  Old  P.  K.  grew  wise  in 
wiles.  He  knew  the  hour  when  Beemer's  drivers 
came  back  to  the  store  with  their  orders  for  the 
day,  when  Beemer  and  all  his  clerks  would  be 
madly  measuring  and  tying  and  filling  baskets. 
That  was  when  old  P.  K.  would  appear.  To  get 
rid  of  him  the  grocer  would  often  scribble  down 
his  order,  and  figure  the  bill  as  sufficiently  repaid 
by  the  time  saved  through  getting  rid  of  old 
P.  K.  so  easily. 

The  Declarator  itself  was  an  example  of  a  good 
idea  gone  wrong  through  stress  of  necessity.  The 
sheet  was  small,  four  pages,  often  filled  with 
plate  matter,  and  the  original  matter  was  set 
in  the  most  amateurish  manner.  The  old  type 
from  which  it  was  set  was  worn  until  some  of  the 
letters  were  mere  smudges  of  black.  From  time 
to  time  old  P.  K.,  being  in  funds,  would  buy  a  few 
pounds  of  cast-off  type  from  the  Eagle,  and  this 
mixed  with  his  worn  supply,  gave  the  paper  a 
bizarre,  hit-and-miss  appearance.  Old  P.  K.  did 
not  bother  about  reading  proof.  The  paper  came 
out  with  all  the  errors,  with  letters  of  one  font 
mixed  with  letters  of  another  font,  and  with 


220  DOMINIE   DEAN 

some  paragraphs  set  in  large  type  and  some  in 
small.  It  was  the  column  headed  tl Briefs,"  how- 
ever, that  tagged  the  Declarator. 

It  was  known  that  old  P.  K.  had  come  from 
somewhere  in  Kansas,  and  it  was  understood  that 
he  had  known  John  Brown,  the  famous  John 
Brown,  whose  soul  goes  marching  on  in  the  bal- 
lad. Welsh  came  to  Riverbank  in  the  years  fol- 
lowing the  war,  and  started  his  little  paper  in 
opposition  to  the  Eagle,  which  was  then  scarcely 
larger.  Riverbank  was  once  more  Democratic. 
The  Declarator  was  violently  Republican  and 
violently  pro-negro.  Across  the  first  page,  just 
under  the  title,  P.  K.  ran  the  motto  "All  men 
— white  or  black — are  equal."  He  knew  his  Bible 
by  heart  and  scattered  Biblical  quotations  through 
his  pages,  each  chosen  because  of  its  sting.  There 
were  but  a  dozen  or  twenty  negroes  in  the 
town,  and  the  negro  question  did  not  worry  any- 
one, and  P.  K.  Welsh's  loyalty  was  an  asset.  Al- 
though the  Republicans  were  in  a  helpless  mi- 
nority they  were  glad  to  have  an  organ,  and  the 
Declarator  did  fairly  well. 

Time  passed  and  the  Eagle  blossomed  from  a 
weekly  into  a  daily.  It  contracted  for  telegraph 
news  of  the  outside  world.  A  group  of  Republi- 
cans started  the  Daily  Star,  staunchly  but  sanely 
Republican,  and  the  Declarator  slumped  into  the 
position  of  an  unneeded,  unwanted  sheet.  A  few 
of  the  old-time,  grit-incrusted  Republicans,  who 
believed  every  Democrat  was  destined  for  hell 
fire,  still  took  the  Declarator;  the  other  sub- 


AN   INTERVIEW  22l" 

scribers  dropped  it.  Old  P.  K.  grew  bitter;  his 
subscription  book  became  his  list  of  friends  and 
enemies.  Those  whose  names  once  appeared  on 
the  list,  or  had  ever  appeared  on  it,  and  who 
canceled  their  subscriptions,  became  the  recipi- 
ents of  his  hatred.  Welsh  brooded  over  them  and 
waited.  Sooner  or  later  he  spat  venom  at  them 
in  the  column  headed  "Briefs." 

To  anyone  not  acquainted  with  Welsh  the  De- 
clarator appeared  to  be  a  blackmail  sheet.  It 
was  not.  Old  P.  K.  was  firm  in  the  belief  that 
he  was  doing  God's  work  and  that  the  Declarator 
was  meant  to  be  God's  instrument.  He  quoted 
Scripture  in  his  columns  to  declare  that  those 
who  were  not  with  him  were  against  him,  and 
that  those  who  were  against  him  were  against 
God.  One  by  one  he  took  up  propaganda  that 
he  believed  righteous,  and  took  them  up  with  all 
the  violence  of  a  fanatic.  He  was  the  first  man 
in  Eiverbank  to  cry  aloud  for  prohibition,  but 
he  was  also  the  first  to  shriek  anti-Catholicism. 
He  held  up  good,  old  Father  Moran  as  an  Anti- 
christ, and  pleaded  that  he  be  driven  from  town. 
He  was  continually  advocating  violence  in  words 
that  to-day  would  have  landed  him  in  prison. 
With  his  abusive  " Briefs"  and  his  inflammatory 
editorials  he  became,  in  a  small  way,  a  nuisance 
to  the  town ;  with  his  nagging  for  advertisements 
he  became  a  nuisance  to  the  merchants.  His  wife 
was  a  simple-minded,  easy-going  creature,  wrin- 
kled and  with  a  brown  wig  inclosed  in  a  hair  net. 
The  wig  looked  less  like  a  head  covering  than 


222  DOMINIE    DEAN 

some  sort  of  brown-hair  pudding.  On  the  whole, 
ridiculous  as  the  wig  was,  it  was  better  than 
nothing,  for  Mrs.  Welsh  was  as  bald  as  a  billiard 
ball. 

These  were  the  parents  of  Lanny  Welsh;  they 
might  well  have  served  as  an  excuse  for  worth- 
lessness  in  the  boy,  but  this  may  be  said  for 
Eiverbank — it  does  not  damn  the  child  because 
of  the  parents.  Lanny  Welsh  won  his  own  tag; 
at  any  rate  it  was  given  him  through  what  the 
town  knew  of  the  boy,  and  not  through  what  it 
knew  of  old  P.  K.  and  Lanny 's  mother. 

You  may  imagine  Lanny  Welsh  with  bright, 
blue  eyes  and  curly,  brown  hair,  slender,  lithe 
and  a  little  taller  than  the  average.  He  had  a 
smile  that  would  charm  the  heart  out  of  a  misan- 
thrope. When  he  smiled  his  eyes  brightened, 
the  corners  of  his  lips  seemed  to  become  alight 
with  good  nature,  and  a  dimple  flickered  in  his 
left  cheek.  As  a  boy  he  was  needlessly  cruel, 
but  perhaps  no  more  than  the  average  boy,  and 
charmingly  sweet  in  his  ways  and  words  when 
he  was  not  cruel.  His  mother  let  him  tread  on 
her  in  everything;  old  P.  K.  seemed  hardly  to 
know  the  boy  was  alive  except  when  he  arose  in 
Biblical  wrath  over  some  escapade,  and  beat 
the  boy  outrageously  with  a  leathern  strap. 
Lanny  howled  when  he  was  being  beaten,  and 
forgot  the  admonitions  that  accompanied  them 
as  soon  as  he  was  safe  outside  the  woodshed. 

He  smiled  his  way  through  school,  graduated, 
and  went  into  his  father's  printing  office  as  a 


AN   INTERVIEW  223 

matter  of  course.  He  worked  there  six  or  eight 
months,  and  left  because  he  could  not  earn  any- 
thing either  for  himself  or  for  his  father.  The 
old  man  hardly  missed  him  until,  some  months 
later,  he  learned  that  Lanny  was  working  in  a 
billiard  room.  He  took  the  boy  to  the  woodshed 
and  Lanny  knocked  him  down,  not  unkindly  but 
firmly,  and  the  old  man  cursed  him  in  good, 
round,  Old  Testament  phrases,  and  disowned  him 
then  and  there.  It  did  not  worry  Lanny  in  the 
least.  He  simply  declined  to  take  any  stock  in 
the  curse  or  the  casting  off,  and  probably  old  P.  K. 
himself  soon  forgot  it.  Lanny  continued  to  live 
at  home. 

He  worked  in  Dan  Eeilly's  saloon.  All  told 
he  worked  for  Dan  Eeilly  three  weeks.  Two 
weeks  he  swept  out  the  place,  polished  brasses 
and  glasses  and  did  odd  jobs.  One  week  he  stood 
behind  the  bar.  One  week  was  enough  of  it.  The 
week  was  in  August,  and  Dan  Eeilly's  saloon 
was  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street ;  there  was  no 
hotter  place  in  Eiverbank  on  a  sunny  August 
afternoon,  and  Lanny  simply  threw  up  the  job 
on  account  of  the  discomfort.  The  one  week,  how- 
ever, was  enough;  he  was  tagged.  He  was  "old 
crank  Welsh's  son,  the  bartender  fellow." 

Lanny  loafed  awhile,  and  then  the  Eagle 
planned  and  put  to  press  the  first  town  directory 
of  Eiverbank,  and  during  the  preparation  of  the 
book  Lanny  found  a  place  in  the  Eagle  rooms 
setting  type.  There  he  remained.  The  typeset- 
ters were  an  easy-going  lot;  the  side  door  of  the 


224  DOMINIE   DEAN 

composing  room  opened  on  an  alley,  and  Dan 
Reilly's  saloon  was  just  across  the  alley.  The 
little  printer's  devil  was  kept  busy  on  hot  days 
running  back  and  forth  with  a  tin  beer  pail. 
The  Eagle  was  a  morning  paper,  and  between 
the  blowing  of  the  shrill  six  o'clock  whistle  and 
the  time  when  the  reporters  turned  in  their  late 
copy  the  printers  were  in  the  habit  of  sitting 
in  the  alley  near  the  street,  eating  a  snack,  sipping 
beer  and  teasing  the  girls  who  passed.  It  was 
nothing  particularly  bad,  but  it  was  sufficiently 
different  from  what  the  bank  clerks  and  counter- 
jumpers  did  to  impress  some  Eiverbankers  with 
the  idea  that  the  printers  were  a  bad  lot.  Thus 
Lanny  grew  up. 

The  town  had  a  baseball  craze  just  then,  and 
the  Eagle  boys  formed  a  nine.  Van  Dusen,  the 
owner  of  the  Eagle,  gave  them  suits — red,  with 
Eagle  Nine  in  white  letters  on  the  shirts — and 
Lanny,  tall,  slim  and  quick-witted,  was  the  pitcher. 
And  he  could  pitch!  It  was  not  long  before  he 
was  gathered  into  the  Riverbank  Grays  when 
critical  games  were  to  be  played,  and  he  was 
the  first  man  in  Riverbank  to  receive  money  for 
playing  ball;  the  Grays  gave  him  five  dollars  for 
each  game  he  pitched  for  them.  It  was  when  he 
began  pitching  for  the  Grays  that  Lanny  became 
well  acquainted  with  Roger  Dean,  who  was 
generally  known  among  the  ball  players  as  * '  Old 
Pop  Dean,"  a  compliment  to  his  ball-playing 
ability,  since  "Old  Pop"  Anson  was  then  king  of 
the  game,  and  the  baseball  hero. 


AN   INTERVIEW  225 

Young  Roger  had  been  meant  for  the  church, 
and  David  and  'Thusia  had  dreamed  of  seeing 
him  fill  a  pulpit,  but  he  seemed  destined  to  be 
an  idler.  The  money  David  had  saved  with  in- 
finite pains  to  provide  a  college  education  was 
thrown  away.  The  boy  departed  for  college  with 
blessings  enough  to  carry  him  through,  but  he 
was  a  born  idler — good-natured  and  lovable,  but 
an  idler — and  long  before  his  course  was  com- 
pleted it  was  known  that  he  had  come  home  and, 
before  long,  it  was  known  he  was  not  going  back. 
The  more  kindly  people  said  he  preferred  a  busi- 
ness career  to  the  ministry;  others  said  he  was 
too  lazy.  He  was  not  a  bad  boy  and  had  never 
been;  as  a  young  man  he  had  no  bad  habits  or 
desires;  he  had  no  ambition. 

Had  David  been  a  farmer  Roger  would  have 
been  a  model  son ;  on  a  farm  he  would  have  milked 
the  cows  for  his  father,  cut  the  grain  for  his 
father,  done  a  man's  work  for  his  father.  Had 
David  been  a  merchant  Roger  would  have  sold 
goods  behind  the  counter  for  his  father,  as  well 
as  any  other  man  could  have  sold  them,  and  would 
have  stood  in  the  sun  at  the  door  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  when  idle,  making  friends  that  would 
have  meant  custom.  But  in  a  minister's  work 
there  are  no  cows  to  milk  for  father,  and  no 
goods  to  sell  for  father;  a  minister's  son  must 
be  bitten  by  ambition  or  his  place  in  the  world 
is  hard  to  find.  He  cannot  learn  his  father's 
trade  by  working  at  it;  and  Roger  was  the  sort 
of  youth  who  does  only  what  is  easily  at  hand  to 


226  DOMINIE    DEAN 

do.  When  he  had  been  home  a  few  weeks  he  was 
most  often  to  be  found  on  the  back  lot  playing 
ball  with  smaller  and  far  younger  boys,  and  he 
was  always  the  first  taken  when  sides  were  being 
chosen.  He  was  big,  and  a  natural  ball  player, 
as  Lanny  was.  His  place  was  behind  the  bat, 
catching,  but  he  was  equally  good  when  at  the 
bat.  The  "curve"  and  "down  shoot"  and  "up 
shoot"  were  just  coming  into  the  game,  but  they 
held  no  mysteries  for  Roger.  He  hit  them  all. 

Henry  Fragg,  'Thusia's  father,  now  an  old 
man,  had  given  up  the  agency  for  the  packet 
company  he  had  long  held,  and  now  had  a  small 
coal  office  on  the  levee.  He  took  Roger  in  with 
him,  giving  him  the  utmost  the  business  could 
afford,  a  meager  four  dollars  weekly — more  than 
Roger  was  worth  in  the  business,  which  was  dead 
in  the  summer — and  Roger  transferred  his  ball 
playing  to  the  levee,  where  bigger  youths  played 
a  more  spirited  game.  Before  the  end  of  that 
season  Roger  was  wearing  a  baseball  suit,  one 
of  the  dozen  presented  by  Jacob  Cohen,  the  cloth- 
ier, in  consideration  of  permission  to  have  the 
shirts  bear  the  words  Jacob  Cohen  Riverbank 
Grays,  and  Roger  was  a  member  of  the  nine,  and 
its  catcher.  Thereafter,  he  gave  more  time  than 
usual  to  baseball.  In  the  rather  puritanical  com- 
munity a  minister's  son  playing  ball  was  at  first 
something  of  a  shock,  but  Roger  did  not  play 
on  Sunday  and  the  Grays  would  not  play  without 
Roger  when  the  game  promised  to  be  close,  so 
the  result  was  less  Sunday  ball.  Roger  received 


AN    INTERVIEW  227 

the  credit  and  baseball  came  to  be  less  frowned 
on.  David  himself  attended  one  or  two  of  the 
Saturday  games,  but  some  of  his  church  members 
felt  he  should  not,  and,  as  he  cared  nothing  for 
the  game,  he  went  no  more.  Alice  went  occasion- 
ally when  the  game  was  important  enough  to  draw 
large  crowds  and  other  nice  girls  were  sure  to 
be  present. 

It  is  remarkable  how  easily  mortals  accept 
genial  incapacity  as  normal.  In  a  year  Eoger 
was  accepted  as  a  satisfactorily  conducted  young 
man,  permanently  dropped  into  his  proper  place, 
and  even  David  and  "Thusia  no  longer  fretted 
about  him.  He  was  always  present  at  meals;  he 
was  no  different  one  day  than  another;  he  was 
cheerful  and  happy  and  contented.  Henry  Fragg 
said  he  did  his  work  well,  which  was  true  enough, 
but  there  was  very  little  work;  once  a  day  or  so 
Eoger  came  in  from  the  sandy  ball  ground, 
weighed  a  load  of  coal,  jotted  down  the  figures 
and  went  back  to  his  "tippy-up"  game.  There 
was  always  the  hope  that  the  business  would  grow, 
and  that  Eoger  would  eventually  succeed  his 
grandfather  in  the  coal  business  and  prosper. 
Neither  was  there  any  reason  why  he  should  not. 

But  Lanny  and  Alice  are  still  tapping  on  David 
Dean's  door. 

"Father,  this  is  Lanny,"  Alice  said,  and  fled. 
The  dominie  looked  up  to  see  a  tall,  slender,  curly- 
haired  youth  with  eyes  as  clear  and  bright  as  stars. 
There  was  no  bashfulness  in  him,  and  no  over- 
confident forwardness.  David  liked  him,  and  he 


228  DOMINIE    DEAN 

was  sorry  to  like  him  so  well.  He  had  a  half- 
formed  hope  that  Lanny  would  show  himself  at 
first  glance  to  be  impossible.  He  was  not  that  so 
far  as  his  exterior  was  concerned. 

"I  don't  think  we  have  ever  met,  Mr.  Dean," 
he  said,  extending  his  hand,  "but  of  course  I 
feel  as  if  I  knew  you — everyone  does.  Alice  told 
you  I  want  to  marry  her.  Well,  I  do.  I  sup- 
pose I  should  have  spoken  to  you  before  I  spoke 
to  her — that's  the  right  way,  isn't  it? — but  I 
didn't  think  of  that  until  afterward.  I  asked 
her  sooner  than  I  meant.  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  wait  a  year — in  another  year  I'll  have  saved 
enough  to  begin  housekeeping  right — but  it  came 
out  of  itself,  almost.  I  liked  her  so  much  I  just 
couldn't  help  it;  I  guess  that's  the  answer." 

"Yes,  Alice  told  me  you  had  asked  her,"  said 
David.  "She  also  told  me  she  had  accepted." 

"Yes,"  said  Lanny,  taking  the  chair  David 
indicated.  "I  can't  tell  you,  Mr.  Dean,  how  much 
I  think  of  her — how  much — well,  I  never  thought 
for  a  minute  she  would  have  me.  Or,  I  did  and 
I  didn't.  I  thought  she  would,  but  I  didn't  be- 
lieve it  would  be  true.  Of  course  she  liked  me, 
but  a  dominie's  daughter,  and  she's  such  a  nice 
girl—" 

"You  felt  she  was  not  in  your  class,  is  that  it?" 
said  David. 

"That's  it,"  said  Lanny  with  relief.  "You 
know  I  tended  bar  once." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  said  David. 

"That  was  a  mistake,"  said  Lanny,  "and  I'm 


AN    INTERVIEW  229 

glad  I  got  sick  of  it  when  I  did.  It's  no  business 
for  a  man  in  a  town  like  this,  or  any  town,  if  he 
wants  to  be  anybody.  If  you  can't  be  a  preacher 
or  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor  you've  got  to  be  in  busi- 
ness. I'm  going  to  get  into  business  as  soon  as 
I  can.  I  think  there's  room  in  this  town  for  a 
good  job  office — job  printing.  A  live  man  ought 
to  make  good  money.  That 's  what  I  have  in  mind 
— an  up-to-date  job  office — as  soon  as  I  can  raise 
the  money.  I  'm  doing  pretty  well  now, ' '  he  added, 
and  he  mentioned  his  wage.  "I  can  support  a 
wife  on  that." 

David  nodded.  He  had  had  no  idea  composi- 
tors were  so  well  paid.  He  was  constantly  being 
surprised  to  learn  how  many  men  in  the  trades 
were  receiving  more  than  he  himself  was  paid. 

"Yes,"  said  Lanny,  returning  to  what  seemed 
uppermost  in  his  mind,  "you  hit  it  when  you  said 
Alice  was  not  in  my  class." 

"But  I  did  not  say  that,"  said  David.  "I  only 
formulated  your  own  thought  for  you." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Lanny.  "I  suppose,  be- 
ing a  minister,  you  don't  take  as  much  stock  in 
classes  as  some  folks  do.  You  care  more  whether 
a  man  is  good  or  bad.  But  I  figure  a  man  has 
got  to  take  some  stock  in  such  things  in  this 
world.  I  can  feel  I'm  not  in  Alice's  class — yet. 
My  folks  are  not  like  you  and  Mrs.  Dean.  I 
don't  know,  but  I  guess  if  I  was  marrying  a  girl 
out  of  my  family  I'd  want  to  feel  I  was  marrying 
her  out  of  the  family,  not  marrying  myself  into  it. 
That's  what  worried  me,  Mr.  Dean,  when  I 


230  DOMINIE    DEAN 

thought  of  having  to  talk  to  you  about  Alice.  I'm 
making  good  wages,  and  I'm  good  for  a  job  any 
time,  and  since  I've  been  a  compo  I've  been  clean 
enough  to  be  a  dominie's  son-in-law,  but  I  know 
I'm  not  in  your  class.  If  I  was  I  wouldn't  be 
wanting  to  get  into  it.  I'd  be  in.  But  I  guess 
you  know  a  man  can't  be  blamed  for  the  kind  of 
parents  he  has.  But,  just  the  same,  he  is." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  your  parents?"  David 
asked. 

"To  mother.  Father  don't  care  whether  I'm 
alive  or  not.  Mother — well,  I '11  tell  you :  I've  been 
giving  her  part  of  my  wages.  She  wasn't  any 
more  pleased  than  she  had  to  be." 

"Alice  says  you  don't  think  of  being  married 
for  a  year,"  said  David. 

"Well,  I  thought  that  was  best,"  said  Lanny. 
"We  talked  it  over  and — I  guess  you  know  we've 
seen  some  thin  picking  at  our  house,  Mr.  Dean.  It 
makes  everything  go  wrong.  I  don't  like  it,  and 
I  made  up  my  mind  long  ago  that  if  ever  I  mar- 
ried it  wouldn't  be  until  I  had  at  least  enough  in 
the  bank  to  carry  me  over  the  between-jobs  times. 
I've  got  three  hundred  in  the  bank  now,  but  I 
don't  want  to  chance  it  on  that.  Alice  and  I 
both  think  it  is  safer  to  wait  a  year.  I  don't 
know  what  I  can  save,  but  it  will  be  every  cent  I 
can." 

David  appreciated  the  exclusion  of  his  own 
home  from  the  example  of  those  that  had  thin 
picking,  although  it  was  evident  enough  that  the 
loverly  confidences  had  included  Alice's  experi- 


AN   INTERVIEW  231 

ence  with  lack  of  ready  money.  David  arose  and 
gave  Lanny  his  hand  again. 

"I  think  the  year  of  waiting  is  a  wise  idea, 
Mr.  Welsh,"  he  said.  " Either  of  you  may  have 
a  change  of  mind." 

"If  I  thought  that,"  said  Lanny  with  a  smile, 
"I'd  want  to  get  married  right  away,"  and  he 
moved  to  the  door.  "It's  mighty  kind  of  you  to 
talk  to  me  without  throwing  me  out  of  the  door," 
he  added.  "I  know  how  much  nerve  I  have,  pick- 
ing Alice  for  a  wife." 

David  was  aware  of  a  sudden  flood  of  affection 
for  the  boy.  He  put  his  hand  on  Lanny 's 
shoulder. 

"Welsh,"  he  said,  "I  can  say  what  I  must  say 
without  offending  you,  I  see." 

Lanny  drew  his  breath  sharply,  and  looked 
into  David's  eyes.  The  hand  tightened  a  little 
on  his  shoulder.  It  stilled  the  fear  that  the 
dominie  was  about  to  tell  him  he  could  not  have 
Alice,  and  his  eyes  smiled,  for  if  Alice  was  not 
refused  him  outright  no  task  would  be  too  diffi- 
cult to  undertake,  whatever  it  might  be  her  father 
was  about  to  propound. 

"We  don't  know  you  yet,"  said  David.  "You 
understand  that,  of  course — it  is  all  so  unex- 
pected. I'll  say  frankly,  my  boy,  that  I  like  you; 
and  that  Alice  likes  you  and  has  chosen  you  means 
much.  You  have  not  asked  me  for  her  out  and 
out,  but  that  is  what  you  meant,  of  course.  Will 
you  let  me  reserve  my  word  temporarily!" 

' '  Well,  that 's  right, ' '  said  Lanny.    ' « You  ought 


232  DOMINIE   DEAN 

to  look  me  up  and  find  out  something  about  me 
before  you  give  me  anything  as  precious  as  Alice. 
If  she  was  mine  I  wouldn't  give  her  to  anyone, 
no  matter  how  good  he  was.  I'll  tell  you,  Mr. 
Dean,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  good  enough  for  her; 
I  don't  expect  you  to  find  that  I  am;  but  I  hope 
you  don't  find  that  I'm  too  bad  for  her." 

"And  might  it  not  be  as  well,"  said  David, 
"that  the  engagement  be  not  widely  heralded  at 
present?" 

Lanny's  face  fell. 

"I've  told  mother,"  he  said.  "There  is  no 
telling  who  she  has  told  by  now." 

"I  cannot  object  to  your  having  told  your 
mother,"  said  David.  "But  let  us  tell  no  others 
for  the  present.  Unless  you  wish  to  tell  your 
father,"  he  added.  Then:  "Good-by,  Mr.  Welsh. 
You  understand  you  will  be  welcome  here  any 
time." 

David  hastened  the  departure  because  he  saw 
Lucille  Hardcome  's  low-hung  carriage  at  his  gate, 
and  Lucille  descending  from  it  in  state.  Outside 
the  door  Lanny  met  Alice  and  to  her  query  he 
said: 

"He  was  fine,  Alice!  He's  a  fine  man.  All 
he  wants  is  time  to  look  me  up  a  little." 

"The  idea!"  exclaimed  Alice.  "And  when  I 
have  looked  you  up  already,"  but  it  was  said  joy- 
fully and  she  tempered  it  with  a  kiss,  quite  clearly 
seen  by  Lucille  Hardcome  through  the  colorless 
glass  of  the  upper  panel  of  the  front  door. 


xvn 

LUCILLE  TO  THE  RESCUE 

ECILLE  HAEDCOME,  having  observed  the 
kiss,  instantly  pulled  the  bell,  and  Lanny 
and  Alice  started  apart  guiltily,  and  Alice 
opened  the  door.  Seeing  Lucille  was  a  relief,  for 
the  visitor  might  have  been  anyone,  and  Lucille 
further  relieved  her  by  pinching  her'cheek  and 
shaking  a  playful  finger  at  her,  accompanied  by  a 
jingling  of  many  bracelets. 

"So  this  is  he!"  she  teased.  "Am  I  to  meet 
him,  Alice,  or  are  you  too  jealous  to  let  him  know 
other  women?" 

Lanny  stepped  forward.  He  shook  hands 
warmly,  making  Lucille 's  bracelets  jingle  like 
miniature  cymbals,  and  Lucille  exchanged  a  few 
words,  half  grave  and  half  gay,  taking  his  meas- 
ure meanwhile — or  thinking  she  was  taking  it, 
for  she  was  a  poor  judge  of  individual  character, 
however  well  she  understood  it  in  the  gross.  She 
liked  the  impressive.  Henry  Ward  Beecher's  hair 
meant  more  to  her  than  Henry  Ward  Beecher's 
mind;  she  could  never  have  understood  a  blithe 
statesman  or  one  not  in  a  frock  coat.  In  time,  not 
being  an  utter  fool,  she  was  apt  to  see  through 
hollow  impressiveness  or  to  see  real  worth  under 
unimpressive  exteriors,  but  this  came  slowly. 
Her  first  impressions  were  usually  wrong,  as 


234  DOMINIE    DEAN 

when  she  had  misjudged  Dominie  Dean.  In 
Lanny,  standing  in  the  illy  lighted  little  hall,  she 
saw  nothing  of  the  inner  Lanny.  She  thought, 
"A  male  trifle;  hardly  worth  serious  considera- 
tion; a  girl's  first  love  material,"  and  felt  she 
had  him  properly  scheduled. 

"Your  father  is  in  the  study?"  she  asked,  and 
tapped  on  the  study  door  lightly,  not  to  injure 
the  knuckles  of  her  kid  gloves.  If  David  had  not 
heard  the  light  tap — which  he  did,  knowing  Lucille 
was  in  the  hall — he  would  have  heard  her  brace- 
lets. He  opened  the  door. 

We  are  apt  to  give  men  and  women  too  much 
credit  for  pursuing  a  definite  course.  The  hard 
heads  that,  at  the  beginning  of  a  career,  lay  clean- 
cut  plans  of  ambition  are  in  an  infinitesimal 
minority.  With  most  ambition  is  not  much  more 
than  a  feeling  of  uneasiness,  an  oyster's  mild  irri- 
tation at  the  grain  of  sand  that  intrudes  into  the 
shell.  Just  as  some  forms  of  indigestion  cause  an 
inward  uneasiness  that  urges  the  sufferer  to  eat 
and  eat,  regardless  of  what  is  eaten,  and  only 
seeking  relief  from  what  seems  a  pang  of  hunger 
— but  is  actually  a  pathologic  condition — so  the 
victim  of  ambition  feeds  on  whatever  comes  to 
hand.  Lucille  was  such  a  victim. 

When  David  opened  the  door  of  his  study 
Lucille  sailed  in  like  a  full-rigged  ship,  and  seated 
herself  at  his  desk.  She  opened  her  purse,  and 
disgorged  the  roll  of  bank  notes,  which  opened 
itself  like  something  alive.  She  pushed  the  money 
to  the  edge  of  the  desk. 


LUCILLE   TO   THE  RESCUE  235 

"You'll  find  that  right,"  she  said,  and  dipped 
into  her  purse  again.  "This  is  the  note,  if  you 
insist.  I've  left  the  time  blank — shall  I  make  it 
a  year?" 

She  picked  up  David's  pen. 

"I  think  six  months — " 

"It  is  to  be  just  as  you  wish  it,"  she  said,  and 
inserted  the  time,  and  slid  the  note  toward  David, 
handing  him  the  pen.  He  was  standing,  and  he 
bent  over  the  desk  and  signed  his  name.  Lucille 
blotted  it  briskly,  and  put  the  note  back  in  her 
purse.  The  money  still  remained  where  she  had 
pushed  it.  She  put  it  into  David's  hand. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed.  "Now,  no  more 
worry!" 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  this,  Mrs. 
Hardcome,"  said  David. 

"Please!"  she  begged,  raising  a  hand.  She 
snapped  her  purse  and  dropped  it  into  her  lap. 
"Alice  told  me  of  her  engagement,  the  dear  girl!" 
she  said.  "I  met  the  happy  man  in  the  hallway 
just  now." 

1  *  Alice  told  you  1 ' '  said  David,  surprised.  "  Oh ! 
this  morning,  of  course.  She  said  nothing  just 
now?  We  think  it  best  not  to  make  the  engage- 
ment public  yet;  they  will  not  be  married  for  a 
year,  at  least — they  agree  to  that — and  I  thought 
she  might  have  told  you." 

Lucille  put  out  her  hand ;  there  was  nothing  for 
David  to  do  but  take  it. 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  cried  effusively.  "Glad 
the  engagement  is  not  to  be  announced,  I  mean; 


236  DOMINIE    DEAN 

glad  the  wedding  is  not  to  be  for  a  year.  I  wonder 
if  you  feel  as  I  do,  that  so  many  marriages  are 
too  hastily  made?  Alice  is  such  a  dear  girl,  Mr. 
Dean;  no  man  could  be  too  good  for  her." 

The  implication  was  plain ;  Lanny  was  not  good 
enough  for  Alice. 

"It  isn't  as  if  dear  'Thusia  could  be  up  and 
about,"  said  Lucille,  still  holding  David's  hand. 
"We  know  'Thusia  would  do  all  a  mother  should 
do,  but  she  is  so  handicapped.  Young  girls  are 
so  impulsive ;  they  need  just  a  bit  of  guiding  here 
and  a  word  there.  We  should  let  them  think  they 
are  making  a  free  choice,  but  should  help  them  in 
making  it.  Mr.  Dean,  frankly,  don't  you  think 
Alice  is  making  a  mistake1?" 

She  dropped  the  dominie's  hand,  and  settled 
herself  in  his  desk  chair  again.  It  was  impossible 
to  shake  off  the  confidential  air  she  had  imparted 
to  the  interview.  David  was  not  sure  that  Alice 
was  not  making  a  mistake.  He  hesitated,  seeking 
some  word  that  would  deny  that  'Thusia  had  not 
done  all  she  should  have  done  for  Alice.  What  he 
wanted  to  tell  Lucille  Hardcome  was  that  he  and 
'Thusia  were  quite  able  to  manage  Alice's  affairs, 
but  it  was  necessary  to  tell  Lucille  more  than 
politely,  and  he  felt  at  heart  that  Lucille  was  per- 
haps right — someone  should  have  guided  Alice's 
choice  a  little. 

"I  know  you  think  so,"  Lucille  said  without 
waiting  for  his  reply.  "I  know  just  how  you 
feel.  I  feel  the  same — quite  as  if  Alice  was  my 
own  daughter;  we  all  feel  as  if  Alice  was  that; 


LUCILLE    TO   THE  RESCUE  237 

the  daughter  of  the  church.  Not  but  what  this 
young  man  may  be  thoroughly  praiseworthy,  Mr. 
Dean,  but  is  he  the  son-in-law  our  dominie  should 
have?  Oh,  no!  No!" 

In  anything  he  said  in  Lanny's  favor,  David 
must  be  on  the  defensive.  He  did  not  know 
enough  of  the  young  man  yet  to  speak  with  un- 
bounded enthusiasm  or  calm  certainty. 

"My  short  interview  with  him  was  quite  satis- 
factory," he  said.  "In  the  essentials  he  seems 
to  meet  any  reasonable  requirements.  His 
manner  is  manly." 

Lucille  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  all  that,  of  course!  Alice  is  not  a  baby, 
she  would  not  choose  anyone  utterly  impossible,  I 
dare  say. ' '  Then,  leaning  toward  David,  she  said : 
"Mr.  Dean,  you  know  and  I  know  that  Alice  ought 
not  marry  this  Lanny,  or  whatever  his  name  is. 
This  Welsh — do  you  know  what  his  father  is? 
He's  an  awful  creature.  You  know  Alice  can't 
be  permitted  to  marry  into  such  a  family.  Now, 
please,"  she  urged,  "just  leave  it  all  to  me. 
Men  can't  manage  such  things,  and  poor  dear 
'Thusia— " 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hardcome,"  David  began. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nonsense!"  she  cried,  rising 
and  mocking  him.  "I  think  it  is  about  time  some- 
one took  you  in  hand,  David  Dean;  I  think  it  is 
just  about  time!  'Thusia  is  a  dear  soul,  and 
Mary  and  Rose  are  dear  souls  too,  but  the  whole 
lot  of  you  haven't  enough  worldly  gumption  to 
say  boo  to  a  goose.  You'd  sit  here  and  let  Alice 


238  DOMINIE   DEAN 

marry  a  bartender  (well,  then,  an  ex-bartender!) 
and  you  wouldn't  see  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  the 
whole  lot  of  us,  and  of  him,  too,  or  if  you  did  see 
it  you  wouldn't  raise  a  hand." 

She  spoke  rapidly  but  without  excitement ;  teas- 
ingly. 

"Mr.  Dean,"  she  continued  in  a  more  serious 
tone, ' '  I  am  worldly  and  I  know  the  world.  Alice 
must  not  marry  this  young  fellow ;  she  must  not ! 
And  she  is  not  going  to!" 

"But,  Mrs.  Hardcome,"  cried  David,  thoroughly 
frightened.  "I  cannot  let  you  interfere  in  what 
is  so  completely  a  family  matter." 

"David  Dean,  will  you  please  stop  Mrs.  Hard- 
coming  me?  My  name  is  Lucille  quite  as  much 
as  Mrs.  Derling  's  is  Mary,  and  you  are  not  going 
to  frighten  me  away  by  calling  me  Mrs.  Hard- 
come.  Now,"  she  said,  "will  you  leave  Alice  to 
me?" 

"I  will  not!"  said  David;  "I  must  beg  you  not 
to  interfere  in  any  way.  I  understand  Alice; 
'Thusia  understands  her.  We  are  not,  perhaps," 
he  said  with  a  smile,  "as  lacking  in  worldly  wis- 
dom as  you  imagine." 

Lucille  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Incorrigible!"  she  exclaimed.  "You'll  never 
understand  how  much  you  need  someone  like  me. 
A  business  manager?  Shall  I  call  it  that?  Then 
it  is  all  settled — I  am  to  see  that  Alice  does  not 
make  this  mistake." 

"No!"  cried  David,  but  she  was  at  the  door. 

"It  is  all  settled!"  she  triumphed. 


LUCILLE   TO   THE  RESCUE  239 

"Mrs.  Hardcome!" 

"All  settled!"  she  laughed,  and  went  out  and 
closed  the  door. 

David  put  his  hand  on  the  knob  and  hesitated. 
After  all  was  said,  Lucille  was  right,  no  doubt. 
The  marriage  would  be  more  than  annoying;  he 
himself  was  too  prone  to  consider  character  as 
canceling  worldly  objections.  There  was  one 
thing  about  Lucille  Hardcome — she  usually  had 
her  way.  She  was  a  "manager." 

Lucille  had  gone  from  David  to  'Thusia.  David 
waited  until  she  had  left  the  house.  He  found 
'Thusia  more  complacent  than  he  had  expected 
to  find  her.  Lucille 's  visits  sometimes  annoyed 
her. 

"I  feel  so  relieved,  David,"  she  said.  "Lucille 
has  been  here  and  spoken  about  Alice.  There  was 
so  little  I  could  do,  tied  down  as  I  am,  and  Euth 
could  hardly  help,  and  of  course  Mary  would 
hesitate,  feeling  as  she  does  about  Alice  and  Ben. 
Lucille  is  just  the  person  we  needed." 

' '  'Thusia !  And  I  thought,  of  all  the  women  in 
Riverbank,  she  was  the  one  we  would  want  to  have 
keep  hands  off!" 

"But  you  see,"  said  'Thusia  cheerfully,  "she 
is  going  to  keep  her  hands  off,  in  a  way.  She  is 
going  to  be  my  hands." 

David  had  his  own  idea  of  Lucille 's  being  any- 
one 's  hands  but  her  own,  but  he  said  nothing  then. 
He  had  the  money  in  his  pocket  with  which  to  pay 
his  debts,  and  he  was  eager  to  settle  with  Herwig. 
He  kissed  'Thusia  and  went  out. 


xvin 

ME.  FRAGG  WORRIES 

S  David  entered  Herwig 's  store  P.  K.  Welsh 
was  leaving  it.  He  was  the  same  greasy, 
unkempt  figure  as  usual,  his  pockets  stuffed 
full  of  copies  of  the  Declarator  and  exchanges, 
his  bent  shoulders  carrying  his  head  low,  and 
his  bushy  brows  drawn  into  a  frown.  He  pushed 
by  the  dominie  as  if  not  seeing  him.  David 
turned,  but  the  old  man  was  already  in  the  street, 
crossing  it,  and  David  went  into  the  store.  He 
had  had  a  momentary  impulse  to  stop  P.  K.,  and 
speak  of  the  engagement,  but  he  decided  that  tell- 
ing his  father  was  Lanny's  affair.  He  went  back 
to  where  Herwig  sat  at  his  desk. 

The  grocer  was  working  on  his  books,  with  a 
pile  of  bills  and  statements  before  him. 

"That  man  Welsh  is  a  town  nuisance,"  he  said. 
"Can't  drive  him  away  with  a  club;  been  pester- 
ing me  an  hour." 

He  did  not  say  how  he  had  finally  driven  Welsh 
away.  P.  K.  had  wanted  a  dollar's  worth  of 
sugar,  and  had  set  his  mind  on  getting  it  from 
Herwig  in  exchange  for  advertising.  Herwig  had 
told  him  he  couldn't  afford  to  give  a  dollar's 
worth  of  sugar  for  advertising  or  anything  else. 
He  couldn't  afford  to  give  a  cent's  worth.  He 

240 


MR.    FRAGG   WORRIES  241 

showed  P.  K.  the  bills  he  owed,  and  the  bills  owed 
to  him.  It  happened  that  David's  statement  was 
the  top  of  the  pile. 

"He  ought  to  pay  you,"  P.  K.  had  snarled. 
"Man  getting  a  salary  like  his;  big  church,  rich 
congregation.  What  right  has  he  to  owe  money?" 

"Well,  he  owes  me,"  said  Herwig.  "Every- 
body owes  me.  Credit  is  the  curse  of  this  town. 
I  can't  get  money  in,  and  I  can't  pay  my  bills, 
and  if  I  don't  I'm  going  to  be  shut  up." 

"One  dollar's  worth  of  sugar  won't — " 

"Oh,  go  away!  I  tell  you  no,  and  I  mean  no! 
Get  out!" 

P.  K.  had  gone.  Going  he  had  seen  the  dominie 
plainly  enough,  and  bitter  hatred  had  been  in  his 
glance.  Lanny  had  not  told  him  of  the  engage- 
ment, but  his  wife  had ;  and  that  alone  was  enough 
to  anger  the  embittered,  old  man.  On  the  street 
his  anger  grew.  Why  had  the  dominie  not 
stopped  him  and  said  something  about  the  en- 
gagement? Too  stuck-up!  Stuck-up,  and  with 
an  unpaid  grocer 's  bill !  He  went  mumbling  down 
the  street,  coaxing  his  ill  humor. 

"I'm  glad  to  say  I've  been  able  to  raise  some 
money, ' '  David  said,  ' '  and  we  will  just  settle  that 
bill  without  further  delay.  And  right  glad  I  am 
to  be  able  to  do  so,  Mr.  Herwig.  The  amount  is?" 

"It  will  be  a  help,  a  great  help,"  said  Herwig 
gratefully.  *  *  Thank  you !  When  a  man  is  pressed 
on  all  sides — " 

He  was  distraught  with  worry,  it  was  easy  to 
see. 


242  DOMINIE    DEAN 

"That  Welsh  pesters  the  life  out  of  me.  I 
can't  afford  to  advertise  in  his  vile  sheet;  it's 
blackmail;  money  wasted — thrown  away.  He 
ought  to  be  run  out  of  town — tarred  and  feathered. 
Brought  up  a  good-for-nothing,  bartending 
son—" 

"Let  me  see — yes,  this  is  the  right  change," 
said  David  hastily.  "You  might  send  me — or  I 
think  I'll  let  Mrs.  Dean  give  her  order  to  the  boy 
to-morrow,  as  usual." 

He  hurried  from  the  store.  He  did  not  know 
why  hearing  Herwig  talk  about  Lanny  annoyed 
him  so.  When  he  was  on  the  street  he  felt 
ashamed  of  having  fled  without  saying  a  word 
in  defense  of  Lanny.  He  turned  to  go  back  and 
did  not  go.  Instead  he  went  the  rounds  of  his 
creditors,  paying  bills. 

It  was  after  banking  hours,  but  the  door  of  the 
bank  stood  open  and  he  went  in.  He  found  the 
banker  in  his  office,  for  Burton  never  hurried 
home,  and  David  went  straight  to  the  matter  in 
hand.  Lucille 's  loan  had  been  enough  to  cover 
the  advance  made  by  the  trustees,  and  David  felt 
he  should  repay  the  church  the  advance.  It  had 
been  included  in  the  schedule  of  his  debts  Lucille 
had  seen.  He  placed  the  bank  notes  on  the 
banker 's  desk,  and  explained  what  they  were  for. 
B.  C.  took  them  and  counted  them. 

"You  know  there  is  no  necessity  for  this, 
dominie, ' '  he  said.  *  *  It  was  understood  the  money 
should  be  deducted  from  your  next  salary  pay- 
ment." 


MR.    FRAGG   WORRIES  243 

"But,  having  it,  I  prefer  to  pay  it  now,"  said 
David.  "I  was  able  to  raise  what  I  needed.  A 
— friend  came  to  my  assistance." 

Burton  stacked  the  banknotes,  and  pushed  them 
back  on  his  desk.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  say  he  hoped  David  had  said  something  to 
Lucille  about  an  increased  subscription,  but  he 
thought  better  of  it.  That  Lucille  had  loaned 
David  the  money  he  was  morally  certain,  for  the 
bank  notes  were  Eiverbank  National  notes,  crisply 
new  and  with  Burton's  signature  hardly  dry.  He 
had  handed  them  through  the  window  to  Lucille 
himself,  remarking  to  her  that  she  would  like 
some  brand-new  money,  perhaps.  He  remembered 
the  amount  of  the  check  she  had  presented;  no 
doubt  it  was  the  amount  of  the  loan  she  had  made 
David. 

When  the  dominie  left  Burton  sat  in  thought. 
Lucille  had  not  made  David  a  present  of  the 
money,  he  decided,  for  he  could  not  imagine  David 
accepting  any  such  gift,  and  it  was  fairly  sure 
that  David  would  not  accept  the  money  as  a  loan 
unless  he  felt  sure  of  repaying  it.  That  meant 
that  he  must  be  sure  of  an  increase  in  salary,  and 
that  in  turn  meant  that  Lucille  must  have  prom- 
ised an  increased  subscription,  doubtless  asking 
that  her  intention  be  kept  secret  for  the  present. 
All  this  was  not  difficult  to  imagine,  but  B.  C.  was 
pleased  that  he  was  able  to  follow  the  clew  so 
well.  He  decided  that  it  would  be  safest  to  let 
David  handle  the  matter,  with  an  occasional  hint 
to  David  to  keep  him  working  for  the  subscrip- 


244-  DOMINIE    DEAN 

tion.  He  decided  this  placidly  and  with  the 
pleasant  feeling  that  the  dominie's  refund,  added 
to  the  cash  already  on  hand,  made  the  church's 
bank  balance  more  respectable.  He  liked  a  good 
bank  balance ;  the  bank  paid  the  church  four  per 
cent  on  its  balances  and  he  was  always  pleased 
when  the  item  "bank  interest"  in  his  report 
amounted  to  a  decent  figure.  He  walked  home 
feeling  well  satisfied.  As  he  passed  the  old  Fragg 
homestead  he  nodded  to  David's  father-in-law 
who  was  coming  through  the  gateway.  The  old 
man  crossed  the  street. 

"My  housekeeper  is  sick,"  he  said,  as  a  man 
who  feels  the  necessity  of  telling  his  banker  why 
he  is  neglecting  his  business  during  business 
hours.  "She's  pretty  bad  this  time,  I'm  afraid. 
I've  got  Eose  Hinch,  and  the  doctor  has  been 
here.  No  hope,  I'm  afraid." 

"Mary  Ann  is  an  old  woman,"  said  the  banker 
philosophically. 

' '  Yes,  yes ! ' '  agreed  Fragg  nervously.  What  he 
did  not  say  was  that  if  Mary  Ann  died  he  would 
have  to  find  another  housekeeper,  and  that — in 
Riverbank — would  be  a  hard  task.  Mary  Ann  had 
been  with  him  while  his  wife  was  alive,  had  been 
with  him  when  'Thusia  was  born.  She  knew  his 
ways,  and  a  new  housekeeper  would  not.  "Yes, 
we  must  all  die!"  he  said.  "I  got  your  notice 
that  my  note  comes  due  next  week.  I  suppose 
it  will  be  all  right  to  renew  it  again?" 

' '  Quite.  Not  much  coal  business  in  midsummer, 
I  imagine,"  said  the  banker. 


MR.   FRAGG   WORRIES  245 

"Very  little.    Well— " 

He  looked  at  the  house  and  then  down  the  street, 
and  hurried  away.  The  banker  continued  his 
easy,  homeward  way. 

The  note  worried  Fragg  more  than  it  worried 
the  banker,  because  Fragg  knew  more  about  his 
affairs.  He  had  mortgaged  the  homestead  to  go 
into  the  coal  business,  because  the  coal  business 
eats  up  capital,  but  this  did  not  worry  either  the 
banker  or  Fragg.  What  worried  Fragg  was  his 
last  winter's  business.  Ever  since  he  had  gone 
into  the  coal  business  the  bank  had  loaned  him, 
each  year,  more  or  less  money  to  stock  up  his 
coal  yard  against  the  winter  trade.  Last  winter 
he  had  lost  money;  bad  accounts  had  eaten  into 
his  reserve,  had  devoured  it  and  more;  he  had 
been  obliged  to  use  a  good  part  of  the  money  the 
bank  loaned  him  in  paying  for  coal  already  sold 
and  consumed.  He  owed  the  bank;  he  owed  the 
mines ;  he  owed  the  holder  of  the  mortgage.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  get  enough  coal  to  supply 
his  trade  during  the  coming  winter.  When  he 
reached  his  office  on  the  levee,  he  saw  the  little 
card  "Back  in  five  minutes"  stuck  in  the  door, 
just  as  he  had  left  it  when  called  to  Mary  Ann's 
bedside.  Eoger  was  practicing  ball ;  he  waved  his 
hand  to  his  grandfather  and  went  on  playing,  and 
the  old  man  entered  the  office,  to  pore  over  his 
books  again,  seeking  some  way  out  of  his  diffi- 
culties. Through  the  window  he  glanced  at 
Roger;  he  was  very  fond  of  the  boy. 


XIX 

"BRIEFS" 

WHEN  the  Declarator  for  that  week  ap- 
peared, David  found  a  copy  in  his  box 
at  the  post  office,  for  Welsh  made  it  a 
practice  to  let  his  victims  see  how  they  were 
handled.  He  had  given  nearly  all  the  space  in 
the  "Briefs"  column  to  David.  The  dominie  did 
not  open  the  paper  immediately.  He  had  a  couple 
of  letters  to  read,  and  one  or  two  denominational 
papers  to  glance  through,  and  he  was  well  up  the 
hill  before  he  tore  the  wrapper  from  the  Declara- 
tor, and  looked  into  it.  As  he  read  he  stopped 
short,  and  stood  until  he  had  read  every  word  in 
the  column.  Then  he  tore  the  sheet  to  bits,  and 
threw  it  into  the  gutter.  His  first  thought  was 
that  'Thusia  must  not  see  the  paper,  or  hear 
how  Welsh  had  attacked  him  in  it.  The  attack 
was  less  harmful  than  venomous.  It  was  a  tirade 
against  "The  Spiritual  Dead  Beat" — for  so  he 
chose  to  dub  David — mentioning  no  name,  but 
pointing  clearly  enough  at  the  dominie.  Choice 
bits: 

"Who  is  this  hypocrite  who  preaches  right 
living,  and  owes  his  butcher,  his  grocer,  his  baker, 
his  shoe  man,  and  can't  or  won't  pay?" 

246 


"  BRIEFS  "  247 

"I  can't  skin  my  grocer;  he  knows  I'm  a  dead 
beat.  I'm  a  fool;  I  ought  to  have  set  up  as  a 
parson." 

There  was  an  entire  column  of  it.  David's 
thought,  after  'Thusia,  was  thankfulness  that  he 
owed  not  a  tradesman  in  Eiverbank. 

And  this  was  to  be  Alice's  father-in-law! 

Lanny  came  to  the  house  that  evening ;  he  asked 
to  see  David  in  the  study. 

"Of  course  you  saw  the  Declarator,  Mr.  Dean," 
he  said  when  they  were  alone.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do  about  it.  I  saw  father,  and  if  he  hadn't 
been  my  father  I  would  have  knocked  him  down 
with  my  fist.  It's  a  dirty  piece  of  business.  I 
know  what's  the  matter  with  him:  he's  sore  be- 
cause I'm  going  to  marry  somebody  decent,  when 
no  decent  person  will  have  anything  to  do  with 
him.  Mother  told  him  I'm  engaged  to  Alice.  I 
talked  to  him  straight;  you  can  believe  that!  I 
would  have  taken  it  out  of  his  hide  if  I  hadn't 
thought  how  it  would  look.  You  wouldn't  want 
a  son-in-law  that  was  in  jail  for  beating  up  his 
own  father.  What  can  I  do  about  it,  Mr.  Dean?" 

David  said  nothing  could  be  done  about  it;  he 
said  he  was  glad  Lanny  had  not  attacked  his 
father  with  physical  violence,  and  he  urged  him 
to  avoid  words  with  his  father. 

"He  has  had  a  hard  life ;  you  and  I  do  not  know 
how  hard.  It  has  embittered  him ;  he  is  not  rightly 
responsible. ' ' 

"But  why  should  he  attack  you,  of  all  men?" 
Lanny  cried.  "Or  if  he  don't  like  you  what  kind 


248  DOMINIE   DEAN 

of  a  father  is  it  that  tries  to  spoil  things  for  me 
—that's  what  he's  trying  to  do.  It's  meanness." 

"He  has  had  a  hard  life,"  David  repeated. 

"You  don't  think  I  ought  to  do  anything?  You 
can't  suggest  anything  for  me  to  do?" 

"Avoid  quarreling  with  him,"  said  David. 
There  was  no  other  advice  to  give;  it  was  un- 
fortunate that  Alice  should  have  chosen  to  love 
a  man  with  such  a  father;  there  was  nothing 
Lanny  or  any  other  person  could  do.  Welsh  was 
a  town  nuisance. 

The  next  week  the  Declarator  retracted,  in  the 
manner  in  which  it  always  retracted  when  a  re- 
traction was  necessary.  The  item  in  the  *  *  Briefs ' ' 
was  headed  "An  Apology!!!"  and  ran:  "We 
apologize.  The  Spiritual  Dead  Beat  has  paid  his 
debts.  We  wonder  who  lent  him  the  money?" 

The  banker-trustee,  Burton,  meeting  David, 
spoke  to  him  of  this. 

"I  see  our  respected  fellow  townsman,  Welsh, 
is  touching  you  up,  dominie,"  he  said.  "It  is  a 
pity  we  can't  run  the  fellow  out  of  town.  Worth- 
less cur!  He  gave  me  his  attention  last  year;  I 
put  an  ad  in  his  paper  and  he  shut  up.  What  do 
you  suppose  ever  started  him  against  you?" 

"He  is  an  embittered  man;  his  hand  is  against 
the  whole  world." 

"That's  probably  so,"  agreed  the  banker.  "A 
sort  of  Donnybrook  Fair;  if  you  see  a  head,  hit 
it.  Well,  I  don't  know  what  we  can  do  about  it. 
He  keeps  inside  the  law."  He  hesitated.  "Do- 
minie," he  said,  "you'll  not  feel  offended  if  I 


«  BRIEFS  »  249 

say  something?  I  guess  you  know  I'm  only  think- 
ing of  the  good  of  the  church  and  of  your  own 
good.  You  don't  suppose  Welsh  knows  who  lent 
you  the  money  he's  talking  about,  do  you?  I'll 
tell  you — I  imagine  you  make  no  secret  of  it — I 
know  who  lent  it!  I  couldn't  help  knowing — " 

"It  was  entirely  a  business  transaction;  I  stipu- 
lated that,"  said  David. 

"Certainly.  We  know  that;  anyone  would 
know  it  that  knew  you,  dominie.  Well,  I've  no 
scruples  about  borrowing  and  lending;  it  is  my 
business,  I'm  a  banker.  I'll  make  a  guess  that 
Lucille  Hardcome  came  to  you  with  the  loan  idea, 
and  that  you  didn't  go  to  her;  and  I'll  make 
another  guess  that  before  you  were  willing  to 
borrow  the  money  from  her  you  heard  her  say 
she  was  going  to  increase  her  subscription,  maybe 
five  hundred  dollars,  and  maybe  a  thousand.  Am 
I  right?  I  thought  so!  Because  it  wouldn't  be 
like  you  to  borrow  unless  you  saw  where  you  could 
pay  it  back,  and  I  told  you  that  if  Lucille  raised 
her  subscription  you'd  get  your  share.  It's  all 
right!  The  only  thing — you  won't  mind  if  I  say 
it?" 

"I  can  imagine  what  it  is,"  said  David. 

"Yes.  If  this  man  Welsh  knows  what  he  is 
talking  about — if  he  isn't  just  guessing — he  can 
be  very  nasty  about  it.  I  can't  imagine  why  he 
is  picking  on  you,  but  if  he  wants  to  keep  it  up, 
and  knows  you  borrowed  money  from  Lucille 
Hardcome,  he  can  make  it — well,  he'll  make  it 
sound  as  if  there  was  something  wrong  about  it. 


250  DOMINIE    DEAN 

He'll  twist  some  false  meaning  into  it — invalid 
wife  and  gay  widow  and  money  passing.  I  hate 
to  say  this,  but  people  are  always  looking  for  a 
chance  to  jump  on  a  minister — some  people  are, 
that  is.  I  don't  know  how  we  can  get  at  Welsh — 
he's  so  low  he's  threat-proof.  I  was  going  to 
suggest  that  you  let  me  put  in  an  application  for 
a  loan  at  our  bank,  say  for  the  amount  you  bor- 
rowed from  Lucille  Hardcome.  Borrow  the  money 
from  us  and  pay  her,  and  then  let  us  get  after 
Welsh." 

David  thought  a  moment. 

"It  might  offend  her,"  he  said.  "She  was  ex- 
tremely insistent.  I  might  almost  say  she  predi- 
cated her  possible  increase  of  subscription  on  my 
accepting  the  loan.  I  felt  so  or  I  would  have 
refused  her." 

"Let  me  handle  her,"  urged  Burton.  "I'll 
say  nothing  until  the  bank  agrees  to  the  loan, 
anyway.  You'll  let  me  make  the  application  for 
you?"  4 

David  agreed.  It  was,  if  the  bank  was  willing, 
the  wisest  course,  or  so  it  seemed  at  the  moment. 

David  went  about  his  duties  as  usual,  and  it  was 
not  for  several  days  that  he  heard  from  Burton. 
The  bank's  discount  committee  had  declined  the 
loan. 

Lucille,  in  the  meantime,  had  not  been  idle. 
She  set  herself  the  task  of  saving  Alice  from 
Lanny  Welsh,  and  she  went  about  it  in  a  manner 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  an  experienced 
diplomat.  One  of  the  men  she  had  tried  hardest 


"  BRIEFS  "  251 

to  induce  to  become  a  frequenter  of  the  "salon" 
she  had  attempted  to  create  was  Van  Dusen,  the 
owner  of  the  Eagle,  and  in  a  certain  satirically 
smiling  way  he  admired  Lucille.  He  had  once 
had  literary  ambitions  and,  like  most  small  town 
editors,  he  had  his  share  of  political  hopefulness, 
especially  with  reference  to  a  post  office;  and  he 
recognized  in  Lucille  a  power  such  as  Eiverbank 
had  not  previously  possessed.  She  knew  congress- 
men and  senators,  and  dined  them  when  they  came 
to  town;  and  they  seemed  to  think  her  worth 
knowing.  A  word  from  her  might,  at  the  right 
moment,  throw  an  office  from  one  applicant  to 
another.  Van  Dusen  cultivated  her  friendship. 
He  was  a  good  talker  and  a  great  reader,  and 
Lucille  enjoyed  him. ,  He  was  a  busy  and  a  sadly 
overworked  man,  hard  to  draw  from  his  home 
after  his  day's  work  was  done,  but  he  did  accept 
Lucille 's  invitations.  His  presence  at  her  house 
meant  much;  the  town  considered  him  one  of  its 
illustrious  men. 

Lucille  jingled  into  his  office  one  morning, 
rustled  into  a  chair  and  leaned  her  arms  on  his 
desk. 

"Are  you  going  to  do  something  for  me,  like  a 
good  man?"  she  began. 

Van  Dusen  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled. 

"To  the  half  of  my  kingdom,"  he  said. 

"That's  less  than  I  expected,  but  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  make  it  do,"  she  returned  playfully. 
"Isn't  there,  Mr.  Van  Dusen,  some  newspaper  OP 
printing  office  in  Derlingport  that  pays  more  than 


252  DOMINIE   DEAN 

you  pay?  Some  place  where  a  deserving  young 
man  could  better  himself? " 

"Some  of  them  pay  more  than  the  Eagle/'  he 
admitted. 

"And  you  could  get  a  young  man  a  place 
there!" 

"I  might.  The  Gazette  might  do  it  for  me; 
Bender  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

1 '  Then  I  want  you  to  do  it, ' '  said  Lucille.  ' '  You 
won't  ask  why,  will  you?  Just  do  it  for  me?" 

"What  position  does  your  protege  want?"  Van 
Dusen  asked,  drawing  a  scratch  pad  toward  him, 
and  poising  a  pencil. 

"Compositor — isn't  that  it — when  a  man  sets 
type?  It's  Lanny  Welsh;  I  want  him  to  have  a 
better  job  than  he  has — in  Derlingport."  She 
saw  Van  Dusen  frown.  "I  think  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it,"  she  said;  "I  know  I  can  trust  you." 

"With  your  innermost  secrets,  on  my  honor  as 
a  bearded  old  editor,"  smiled  Van  Dusen. 

"Then  it  is  this,"  said  Lucille  and  she  told 
about  Lanny  and  Alice. 

Van  Dusen  demurred  a  little.  He  said  Lanny 
was  good  enough  for  any  girl,  dominie 's  daughter 
or  king's  daughter,  no  matter  whose  daughter. 

"And  have  you  seen  the  Declarator?"  Lucille 
demanded.  "Is  the  editor  of  the  Declarator  good 
enough  to  be  a  dominie's  daughter's  father-in- 
law?" 

Van  Dusen  admitted  that  this  was  another 
matter,  and  good-naturedly  let  Lucille  have  her 
way.  When  she  had  departed,  he  wrote  to  Bender 


"  BRIEFS  "  253 

of  the  Gazette.  A  few  days  later  Lanny  came  to 
the  manse,  half  elated  and  half  displeased. 

"Old  Van  is  all  right  I"  he  told  David.  "I  can't 
blame  him  for  bouncing  me  when  there 's  no  work 
for  me  to  do,  and  there's  not  one  man  in  a  thou- 
sand that  would  take  the  trouble  to  look  up 
another  job  for  me,  and  hand  it  to  me  with  my  blue 
envelope.  I'm  going  up  to  work  on  the  Gazette, 
at  Derlingport,  Mr.  Dean.  It  just  rips  me  all  up 
to  go  that  far  from  Alice,  even  for  a  little  while, 
but  I've  got  to  do  it.  If  we're  going  to  be  married 
in  a  year  I  need  every  day's  work  I  can  put  in, 
and  when  you  think  that  the  Gazette  job  will  pay 
more  than  my  Eagle  job,  I  guess  you'll  admit  I've 
simply  got  to  grab  it." 

"When  are  you  going?"  asked  David. 

1  *  To-morrow, ' '  said  Lanny.  ' '  These  jobs  don 't 
wait;  you've  got  to  take  them  while  they're  empty. 
Between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Dean,  I  think  I  wouldn't 
have  had  a  chance  in  the  world  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Mr.  Van  Dusen.  He 's  that  sort,  though. ' ' 

To  David,  knowing  nothing  of  Lucille 's  having 
a  hand  in  this,  it  seemed  almost  providential,  this 
removal  of  Lanny  to  another  town. 

"I've  got  another  idea,  too,"  Lanny  said.  "I 
think  maybe  I  can  get  father  to  come  to  Derling- 
port. He 's  dead  sore  on  Riverbank,  I  know,  and 
mother  will  be  anxious  to  be  where  I  am.  I  may 
be  able  to  make  father  think  there  is  a  better  field 
for  the  Declarator  there  than  here.  I  don't  know. 
After  I've  been  there  awhile  I'll  try  it.  I  wish 


254  DOMINIE    DEAN 

he  would  leave  this  town,  and  let  people  forget 
about  him." 

David  heartily  wished  the  same  thing,  and  he 
was  soon  to  wish  it  still  more  heartily.  At  the 
moment  he  liked  Lanny  better  than  he  had  ever 
liked  the  boy. 

"I  expect  you'll  excuse  me,  now,"  Lanny  said. 
"I  expect  you  know  I'm  wanting  to  spend  all  the 
time  with  Alice  I  can,  going  in  the  morning  and 
all  that.  And,  oh,  yes !  I'm  going  to  look  around 
up  there  for  a  job  for  Old  Pop — for  Eoger.  I'm 
pretty  sure  to  get  on  the  Derlingport  nine,  and 
I  want  Old  Pop  to  be  behind  the  bat  when  I'm 
pitching.  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
him  to  get  up  there,  if  I  can  land  a  job  for  him. 
There's  no  future  in  that  coal  office,  Mr.  Dean,  to 
my  mind.  They  are  a  live  lot  of  men  back  of  the 
Derlingport  nine,  and  if  I  want  Old  Pop  to  catch 
for  me,  and  won't  listen  to  anything  else,  some  of 
them  will  hustle  up  a  job  for  him.  Maybe  there 
is  a  coal  man  connected  with  the  nine  someway. 
I  don't  know,  but  in  a  big  place  like  Derlingport 
there's  always  room  for  anybody  as  clean  and 
straight  as  Roger." 

David  was  touched.  He  saw,  in  imagination,  a 
new  Roger  winning  his  own  way,  spurred  on  by 
the  brisker  business  life  of  the  bigger  town,  bet. 
tered  by  the  temporary  breaking  of  home  ties, 
inoculated  with  Lanny 's  enthusiasm. 

Roger  spoke  of  the  chance  Lanny  might  get  him, 
and  spoke  of  it  voluntarily  and  enthusiastically. 
It  would  be  a  great  thing  for  him,  he  said.  Grand- 


«  BRIEFS  "  255 

father  Fragg  was  all  right,  of  course,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  the  way  of  a  future  in  his  coal 
business.  He  said  he  hated  to  take  money  from 
him  when  he  knew  the  business  was  running  be- 
hind every  day. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  Boger?"  David  asked. 

11  Every  bit,  father,"  Eoger  replied.  "I  don't 
see  how  he's  going  to  pull  through  the  winter 
and  keep  the  business  going." 

" Isn't  there  anything  you  can  do?" 

"  Do  ?  It  isn  't  a  case  of  do,  it 's  a  case  of  money. 
He  didn't  have  enough  capital  to  start  with,  and 
he  hasn't  any  left.  Brown  &  Son  have  got  all  the 
business.  I  could  get  some  of  it  away  from  them 
but  grandfather  can't  supply  the  coal.  He  can't 
buy  it;  he  hasn't  the  money  to  do  a  big  business 
on,  and  a  small  coal  business  is  a  losing  proposi- 
tion. The  profit  is  too  small;  you've  got  to  do 
big  business  or  you  might  as  well  quit." 

The  talk  left  David  with  a  new  source  of  worry. 
'Thusia  's  father  was  showing  his  infirmities  more 
plainly  each  day;  if  he  lost  his  coal  business — and 
David  knew  the  loss  of  the  Fragg  home  was  to  be 
included  in  that  loss — the  old  man  would  have 
but  one  place  to  turn  to:  David's  home.  It  would 
mean  another  mouth  to  feed,  perhaps  another 
invalid  to  care  for  and  support. 


XX 

LANNY  IS  AWAY 

TWO  weeks  in  succession,  after  going  to 
Derlingport,  Lanny  spent  Sunday  in  River- 
bank,  'and  Alice  enjoyed  the  visits  im- 
mensely. Their  brief  separation  gave  zest  to  the 
mere  being  together  again.  The  third  Sunday 
Lanny  did  not  come  down,  but  wrote  a  long  letter. 
The  Derlingport  nine  had  jumped  at  the  chance 
of  securing  him  as  a  pitcher;  they  were  to  give 
him  ten  dollars  a  game.  He  was  mighty  sorry, 
he  wrote,  that  the  nine's  schedule  included  Sunday 
games,  but  every  ten  dollars  he  could  pick  up  in 
that  way  made  their  wedding  day  come  just  so 
much  nearer.  He  guessed,  he  said,  that  it  would 
be  all  right  for  him  to  play  the  Sunday  games  in 
Derlingport,  and  in  other  towns  than  Riverbank; 
if  Derlingport  played  any  Sunday  games  in  River- 
bank  they  could  get  another  pitcher  for  the  games. 
He  mentioned  Roger;  he  had  talked  to  the  bosses 
of  the  nine,  and  they  were  willing  to  find  a  job  for 
Old  Pop,  and  would  do  so  if  Roger  would  sign 
up  for  the  season,  or  what  remained  of  it,  but 
Lanny  wrote  that  he  supposed  the  Sunday  game 
business  would  shut  Roger  out  of  that. 

Alice  volunteered  to  let  David  and  'Thusia  read 
the  letter — it  was  the  first  out-and-out  love  letter 

256 


LANNY   IS   AWAY  257 

she  had  ever  received — but  they  declined,  feeling 
that  to  do  so  would  be  to  take  an  unfair  advantage 
of  Alice's  dutifumess,  and  she  read  them  such 
portions  as  were  not  pure  love-making.  The  letter 
came  Saturday.  Alice  was  not  greatly  disap- 
pointed that  Lanny  was  not  coming  down,  for  he 
had  suggested  that  he  might  not  come.  She  went 
to  church  Sunday  morning,  and  Ben  Derling 
walked  home  with  her.  The  Presbyterian  Sab- 
bath school  was  held  in  the  afternoon,  and  about 
the  time  Lanny  was  warming  up  for  the  first  in- 
ning of  the  Derlingport-Marburg  ball  game 
Alice  was  leading  her  class  in  singing  the  closing 
song.  Below  the  pulpit  Lucille  Hardcome  beat 
time  with  her  jingling  bracelets,  and  she  smiled 
to  see  Ben  Derling  close  his  hymn  book,  and  edge 
past  his  class  of  boys  with  a  glance  in  Alice's 
direction.  He  hurried  out  as  soon  as  the  bene- 
diction was  said,  and  Lucille  rightly  guessed  that 
he  meant  to  wait  for  Alice  in  the  lobby,  but  Lucille 
captured  Alice  before  she  could  escape. 

"If  you  are  not  needed  at  home,  Alice,"  she 
said,  "you  must  come  with  me.  I  have  the  most 
interesting  photographs!  Dozens  of  them,  pic- 
tures of  Europe.  My  carriage  will  be  here 
directly." 

The  photographs  were  not  new.  Lucille  had 
made  a  flight  through  Europe  as  soon  as  her  hus- 
band was  dead.  It  was  her  first  use  of  the  money 
she  inherited,  and  she  had  bought  the  photographs 
then — it  was  before  the  days  of  picture  postcards. 


258  DOMINIE   DEAN 

For  six  months  after  her  return  she  had  inflicted 
the  photographs  on  all  her  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, and  had  then  tired  of  them.  They  had  re- 
posed peacefully  in  a  box  ever  since,  and  might 
have  remained  there  forever,  had  she  not  invited 
Ben  Derling  to  her  house. 

Lucille  played  a  harp — a  great  gilded  affair, 
and  she  asked  Ben,  who  was  a  fair  violinist, 
to  try  a  duet,  suggesting  that  they  might  make 
part  of  a  program  when  she  gave  a  concert  for 
the  church  fund.  Ben  went  willingly  enough,  and 
played  as  well  as  he  could,  and  enjoyed  the  eve- 
ning immensely.  He  found  Lucille  but  an  indif- 
ferent harpist,  but  willing  to  let  him  make  sug- 
gestions. She  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  a 
series  of  musical  evenings,  and  he  took  to  the  idea 
enthusiastically.  This  was  Wednesday. 

Lucille 's  real  reason  for  asking  Ben  to  her  house 
had  been  to  study  him  a  little  more  closely  than 
she  had  had  opportunity  to  do  before.  She  men- 
tioned Alice,  and  Ben  was  enthusiastic  enough  to 
satisfy  Lucille  that  he  liked  Alice  well.  If  Alice 
would  be  willing  to  try  out  a  few  things  with  him, 
piano-violin  duets,  it  would  be  a  pleasing  part  of 
the  musical  evenings,  he  said.  Lucille  thought  so, 
too.  They  talked  music ;  and  Lucille  happened  to 
mention  that  she  had  first  heard  the  harp  in 
Paris,  and  Ben  said  he  had  not  taken  time  to  hear 
any  music  when  he  was  in  Europe.  It  was  the 
first  Lucille  had  heard  of  Ben's  European  tour, 
and  she  left  him  in  her  parlor  while  she  hunted 
up  the  photographs. 


LANNY   IS   AWAY  259 

She  was  not  quite  sure  where  they  were.  As 
she  rummaged  for  them  she  thought  Ben  over, 
and  almost  decided  he  would  not  do  as  a  substi- 
tute for  Lanny  "Wesh.  There  was  something 
gayly  sparkling  about  Lanny,  and  Ben  was  any- 
thing but  gay  or  sparkling.  He  was  short  and 
chunky,  serious-minded  and  sedate.  Some  ances- 
tor had  given  him  a  little  greasy  knob  of  a  nose, 
but  this  was  his  most  unpleasant  feature.  It  is 
easiest,  perhaps,  to  describe  him  as  a  thoroughly 
bathed  young  man,  smelling  of  perfumed  soap, 
and  with  yellowish  hair,  ever  smooth  and  glisten- 
ing from  recent  applications  of  a  well-soaked  hair- 
brush. He  had  no  bad  habits  unless,  in  one  so 
young,  incessant  application  to  business  is  a  bad 
habit.  He  had  taken  his  place  in  his  grand- 
father's office  the  week  the  old  man  died.  Al- 
ready, from  bending  over  a  desk,  he  was  a  little 
rounded  in  the  shoulders.  His  violin  and  his 
Sunday  school  class  were  his  only  relaxations. 
He  was  a  good  boy,  and  a  good  son;  but  Lucille 
was  afraid  he  was  not  likely  to  appeal  to  the  ro- 
mantic taste  of  a  girl  like  Alice.  When  she  dis- 
covered the  photographs  she  was  inclined  to  leave 
them  where  they  were,  and  tell  Ben  she  could  not 
find  them,  and  let  the  musical  evenings  be  for- 
gotten. The  picture  that  happened  to  be  on  top 
was  one  that  pictured  some  city  or  cathedral  of 
which  Van  Dusen  had  spoken  when  last  in  her 
home,  and  more  for  Van  Dusen  than  for  Ben  she 
gathered  the  pictures  in  her  arms,  and  carried 
them  downstairs.  Ben  seized  them  eagerly. 


260  DOMINIE   DEAN 

His  trip  abroad  had  been  the  one  great  upflaring 
of  his  life.  He  had  gone  with  a  "party,"  and  had 
raced  from  place  to  place,  but  he  had  a  memory 
that  was  infallible.  His  eyes  brightened  as  he 
saw  the  photographs.  He  talked.  He  talked  well. 
He  made  the  pictures  live.  He  was  in  his  element : 
he  would  have  made  an  admirable  stereopticon 
lecturer  had  business  not  claimed  him.  He  re- 
membered dates,  historical  associations,  little  inci- 
dents that  had  occurred  and  that  had  the  foreign 
tang.  Before  he  had  gone  one  quarter  through 
the  pile  of  pictures,  Lucille  gathered  them  up. 

1 1  No  more  to-night ! ' '  she  laughed.  1 1  We  young 
folks  must  have  our  beauty  sleep,"  and  she  sent 
him  away.  * '  He  must  show  the  pictures  to  Alice, ' ' 
she  said  to  herself.  "She  will  be  made  to  visit 
Europe  when  she  hears  him  tell  of  it.  He  is  quite 
another  Ben." 

When,  Sunday  afternoon,  Lucille  found  that 
Ben,  as*  she  had  guessed,  was  waiting  in  the  lobby 
she  hailed  him  at  once,  saying: 

"How  fortunate!  I  am  taking  Alice  to  look  at 
my  European  pictures.  You  '11  come,  won 't  you  1 ' ' 

Ben  was  eager.  There  was  room  in  the  car- 
riage for  him,  crowding  a  little,  which  was  not 
unpleasant  when  it  was  Alice  who  was  crowded 
against  him.  Lucille  left  them  with  the  photo- 
graphs while  she  went  to  induce  the  maid  to  make 
a  pitcher  of  lemonade.  When  she  returned  Ben 
was  talking.  He  and  Alice  were  seated  on  a  couch 
by  the  window,  and  Alice  was  holding  a  photo- 


LANNY   IS   AWAY  261 

graph  in  her  hands,  studying  it.  Ben  sat  turned 
toward  her;  he  leaned  to  point  out  some  feature 
of  the  picture,  and  Alice  asked  a  question.  Lu- 
cille placed  the  pitcher  of  lemonade  on  a  stand, 
and  went  out ;  they  were  doing  very  well  without 
her.  She  felt  she  had  made  an  excellent  begin- 
ning; Lanny  banished,  and  Alice  at  least  inter- 
ested in  what  Ben  was  interested  in.  When  she 
interrupted  them  it  was  to  suggest  the  musical 
evenings. 

"It  will  be  delightful!"  Alice  exclaimed.  She 
had,  for  the  moment,  quite  forgotten  Lanny.  The 
moment  had,  in  fact,  stretched  to  something  like 
two  hours.  Ben  walked  home  with  her. 


XXI 

A  FAILURE 

A  TJGrUST  and  September  passed,  and,  in  pass- 
/\  ing,  seemed  as  placid  and  uneventful  as  any 
two  months  that  ever  slipped  quietly  away. 
To  Alice  no  day  and  no  week  held  any  especial 
significance;  if  she  had  been  asked  to  tell  the 
most  important  event  of  the  two  months,  she 
would  probably  have  said  that  it  was  the  comple- 
tion of  the  set  of  twelve  embroidered  doilies,  and 
the  centerpiece  to  match,  the  first  work  she  had 
undertaken  for  her  new  home — the  home  to  be — 
since  her  engagement  to  Lanny  had  come  about. 
David  Dean  could  have  thought  of  nothing  of 
particular  importance.  Old  Mrs.  Grelling  had 
died,  but  she  had  been  at  death's  door  so  long  her 
final  passing  through  was  hardly  an  event,  and 
nothing  else  had  occurred.  Lanny  would  have 
said  everything  was  running  smoothly ;  his  pitch- 
ing arm  kept  in  good  condition,  his  work  was 
steady  at  the  Gazette  office,  and  Alice's  letters  to 
some  extent  took  the  place  of  the  visits  to  River- 
bank  which  the  Sunday  ball  games  made  impossi- 
ble. Old  P.  K.  Welsh  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
anger  against  the  dominie,  and  used  the  " Briefs" 
to  lambaste  other  Riverbankers.  Herwig  was  still 
in  business  and  Mary  Ann,  Mr.  Fragg's  house- 


A   FAILURE  263 

keeper,  clung  to  life.  Rose  Hinch  was  still  nurs- 
ing the  old  housekeeper  and  getting  Fragg's 
meals.  'Thusia  was  no  better  and  no  worse.  The 
two  months  were  uneventful.  They  were  months 
of  which  we  are  accustomed  to  say:  "Everything 
is  going  the  same  as  usual." 

We  deceive  ourselves.  The  quiet  days  build  the 
great  catastrophies.  The  greatest  builder  and 
demolisher  is  Time,  and  he  works  toward  his 
ends  on  quiet  days  as  well  as  on  noisy  days ;  works 
more  rapidly  and  more  insidiously,  perhaps.  If 
Time  does  nothing  else  to  us  on  quiet  days,  he 
makes  us  a  day  older  each  day.  To-day  I  am  the 
indestructible  granite ;  to-morrow  a  speck  of  dust 
touches  me  and  is  too  small  to  see;  the  next  day 
it  is  a  smudge  of  green ;  the  next  it  is  a  lichen ;  it 
is  a  patch  of  moss  that  can  be  brushed  away  with 
the  hand ;  it  is  a  cushion  of  wood  violets  and  oxa- 
lis ;  it  is  a  mat  in  which  a  seedling  tree  takes  root ; 
the  roots  pry  and  the  moisture  rots  and  the  granite 
rock  falls  apart,  and  I  am  dead. 

The  two  months  that  passed  so  quietly  and 
happily  for  Alice  Dean  were  equally  happy 
months  for  Ben  Derling.  He  was  never  the  youth 
to  make  of  courtship  a  hurrah  and  a  race;  he 
hardly  considered  he  was  courting  Alice — he  was 
seeing  her  oftener  than  he  had  seen  her,  and  en- 
joying it.  Alice  was  but  filling  in  the  days  and 
evenings  as  pleasantly  as  possible  during  Lanny's 
absence.  If  Ben  had  been  the  eager  instigator  of 
their  meetings  Alice  would  have  drawn  back,  but 
Ben  instigated  nothing;  Lucille  Hardcome  stood 


264  DOMINIE    DEAN 

between  them,  and  was  the  reason  they  met.  Alice 
went  to  Lucille 's  because  Lucille  wished  her 
musical  evenings  to  be  a  success;  Ben  was  there 
because  he  was  a  part  of  the  proposed  pro- 
grams. The  two  young  people  were  musicians, 
not  susceptible  male  and  female,  and  they  met  as 
musicians,  interested  in  a  common  desire  to  assist 
Lucille.  By  the  end  of  the  two  months  Alice  had 
greater  respect  and  liking  for  Ben  than  she  had 
ever  imagined  possible.  She  had  thought  him  a 
dull  boy;  she  found  him  solid,  sincere  and  more 
than  comfortable.  By  the  end  of  the  two  months 
Ben,  not  aware  that  Alice  was  pledged,  had  de- 
cided that  she  was  the  girl  he  wished — but  no 
hurry! — to  have  as  a  wife.  Lucille  was  pleased 
but  impatient.  Mary  Derling,  seeing  how  things 
were  going,  was  pleased  but  not  impatient. 

Alice  was  unaware  of  any  change  in  her  feeling 
for  Lanny.  She  wrote  him  letters  that  were  as 
loving  as  love  letters  should  be,  and  Lanny  wrote 
with  equal  regularity.  He  wrote  daily.  Toward 
the  end  of  September  Alice  was  not  quite  as  eager 
in  her  reading  of  his  letters,  mainly  because  their 
mere  arrival  was  satisfactory  evidence  that  Lanny 
still  loved  her.  She  wrote  a  little  less  frequently ; 
there  was  not  enough  news  to  make  letters  neces- 
sary, except  as  expressions  of  affection.  Without 
knowing  it,  she  was  reluctant  to  express  her  affec- 
tion as  unrestrainedly  as  at  first.  She  let  one  of 
Lanny 's  letters  remain  unopenecj  a  full  day.  Once 
she  passed  old  P.  K.  Welsh  on  the  street :  he  did 


A   FAILURE  265 

not  notice  her,  probably  did  not  know  she  was 
Alice  Dean,  but  Alice  felt  an  irritation ;  it  was  too 
bad  Lanny  had  such  a  father.  Without  anything 
having  happened,  the  end  of  the  two  months  found 
this  difference  in  Alice:  whereas,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  August  she  was  in  love  with  Lanny,  and 
eager  for  the  wedding,  at  the  end  of  September 
she  was  in  love  with  him,  and  not  eager  for  the 
wedding.  Probably  if  Lanny  had  made  a  few 
trips  to  Riverbank  just  then  it  would  have  made 
all  the  difference  possible.  He  was  magnetic; 
he  was  not  a  magnetic  correspondent. 

The  unimportant  two  months  had  for  David 
Dean  several  vastly  important  littlenesses.  Lu- 
cille, preliminary  to  her  * '  evenings, ' '  asked  David 
to  run  in  and  hear  how  well  her  amateurs  were 
progressing,  and  she  asked  Mary  Derling,  too. 
She  had  in  mind  a  trial  of  the  effect  of  a  family 
grouping,  as  if  the  presence  of  Mary  and  David 
would  be  an  unwitting  approval  of  growing  in- 
timacy of  Ben  and  Alice.  David,  always  music 
hungry,  enjoyed  the  evenings  of  practice;  Mary 
did  not  care  much  for  music,  and  cared  a  little 
less  for  Lucille.  She  made  excuses.  After  one 
evening  she  declined  and  went  to  the  manse  in- 
stead; she  enjoyed  being  with  'Thusia.  At  the 
far  end  of  Lucille 's  rather  spacious  parlor  David 
and  Lucille  sat,  while  Ben  and  Alice  tried  their 
music.  Lucille  talked  of  everything  that  might 
interest  David.  She  adopted  the  fiction  that  she 
and  the  dominie  were  in  close  confidence,  and  at- 
tuned her  conversation  to  the  fiction.  She  was 


266  DOMINIE   DEAN 

continually  saying,  "But  you  and  I  know — "  and, 
"You  and  I,  however — "  David  as  consistently 
declined  to  share  the  appearance  of  close  confi- 
dence, but  how  could  he  be  too  harsh  when  the 
twin  thoughts  of  what  Lucille  was  doing  for  Alice 
and  what  he  owed  Lucille  in  cash  (and  hoped  to 
get  from  her  in  subscription)  were  always  pres- 
ent? The  two  eventless  months  also  brought  the 
note  sixty  days  nearer  due.  They  did  not  bring 
the  subscription  Lucille  had  hinted.  Now  and 
then  a  flush  of  worry  ran  through  David — how 
would  he  be  able  to  reduce  the  amount  of  the  note 
when  the  six  months  were  up  ?  Certainly  not  out 
of  any  savings;  his  expenses  seemed  to  be 
running  a  little  in  advance  of  his  salary,  as 
usual. 

For  'Thusia's  father  the  two  months  brought 
closer  and  clearer  the  certainty  that  he  could  not 
keep  the  coal  business  intact  much  longer.  After 
the  January  settlements,  or  after  the  April  set- 
tlements, at  latest,  the  bank  would  see  that  his 
affairs  were  hopeless.  Concerning  his  business, 
all  he  hoped  now  was  that  he  could  keep  things 
going  until  Mary  Ann  died.  He  had  an  idea,  hazy 
and  which  he  dared  not  think  into  concreteness, 
that — once  out  of  business — he  might  make  a  liv- 
ing doing  something.  At  the  same  time  he  knew 
he  could  do  nothing  of  the  sort;  he  had  not  the 
health.  He  was  merely  trying  to  avoid  admitting 
to  himself  that  he  was  about  to  become  a  charge 
on  David  Dean. 

The  crash — and  it  was  a  very  gentle  crash,  and 


A   FAILURE  267 

well  deadened  by  the  bank  which  did  not  want  un- 
profitable reverberations — came  in  April.  As  the 
fact  reached  the  newspapers  and  the  public,  it 
appeared  that  Mr.  Fragg  was  selling  out  on  ac- 
count of  his  failing  health,  and  that  before  em- 
barking in  another  business  he  would  rest  and 
recuperate.  His  books  showed  that  when  every- 
thing was  turned  into  cash  he  would  still  be  in- 
debted to  the  bank,  and  the  coal  mines  or  factors, 
something  over  four  thousand  dollars.  The 
house  was  gone,  of  course.  Mary  Ann  had  died  in 
December,  and  Mr.  Fragg  had  not  tried  to  re- 
place her ;  for  several  months  he  had  been  board- 
ing. It  was  evident  to  him  and  to  David  that  the 
old  man  could  not  board  much  longer;  there  was 
no  money  to  pay  the  board  bills.  There  was  one 
room  vacant  at  the  manse,  the  room  that  had  been 
" fixed  up"  for  a  maid,  under  the  roof,  used  now 
as  a  storage  place  since  Alice  did  the  work  of  the 
dismissed  maid.  Here  old  Mr.  Fragg  took  the  few 
belongings  the  room  would  accommodate. 

For  many  years  after  this  the  old  man  was 
often  seen  in  Riverbank.  Bad  days  he  was  unable 
to  go  out ;  on  bright  days  he  walked  slowly  down- 
town. He  had  his  friends,  merchants  who  were 
glad,  or  at  least  willing,  to  have  him  sit  in  their 
offices,  and  with  them  he  spent  the  days.  Now 
and  then  'Thusia  gave  him  a  little  money — a  dol- 
lar or  two,  all  that  could  be  afforded — and  so  his 
life  ran  to  a  close.  He  would  have  been  quite 
happy  if  he  could  have  paid  his  own  way.  Love 
and  kindness  enveloped  him  in  David's  home;  he 


268  DOMINIE    DEAN 

was  the  dearly  loved  grandfather.  He  would 
have  been  quite  happy,  without  paying  his  way, 
if  he  had  not  known  how  hard  it  was  for  even 
David  to  live  on  his  salary.  He  worried  about 
that  constantly. 


xxir 
A  TRAGEDY 

I  KNEW  David  Dean  so  well  and  for  so  many 
years  that  I  may  see  a  tragedy  in  what  may, 
after  all,  be  merely  an  ordinary  human  life. 
As  I  think  of  him,  from  the  time  I  first  knew  him, 
on  through  our  many  years  of  friendship,  I  can- 
not recall  that  he  ever  had  a  greater  ambition 
than  to  serve  his  church  and  his  town  faithfully. 
He  had  a  man's  desire  for  happiness,  and  for 
the  blessings  of  wife  and  children,  and  that  they 
might  live  without  penury;  but  he  was  always 
too  full  of  the  wish  to  be  of  service  to  waste 
thought  on  himself.  Love  and  care  and  such  little 
luxuries  as  the  shut-in  invalid  must  have  he 
lavished  on  'Thusia,  but  the  lavishment  of  the 
luxuries  was  in  the  spirit,  and  not  in  the  quantity. 
It  was  lavishness  to  spend  even  a  few  cents  for 
daintier  fruit  than  usual,  when  David's  income 
and  expenses  were  considered.  'Thusia  did  not 
suffer  for  luxuries,  to  tell  the  truth;  for  Mary 
and  the  church  ladies  sometimes  almost  over- 
whelmed her  with  them,  but  the  occasional  special 
attention  from  David  was,  as  all  wives  will  ap- 
preciate, most  necessary. 

The  Riverbank  Presbyterians  considered  them- 
selves exceedingly  fortunate  in  having  David 
Dean.  The  rapid  succession  of  Methodist  pastors, 


270  DOMINIE   DEAN 

with  the  inevitable  ups  and  downs  of  character 
and  ability,  and  the  explosions  of  enthusiasm  or 
of  anger  at  each  change,  made  David's  long  tenure 
seem  a  double  blessing.  His  sermons  satisfied; 
his  good  works  were  recognized  by  the  entire  com- 
munity ;  his  faith  was  firm  and  warming.  He  was 
well  loved.  When  Lucille  Hardcome  finally  recog- 
nized his  worth,  there  did  not  remain  a  member 
of  the  congregation  who  wished  a  change.  It  may 
be  put  more  positively:  the  entire  congregation 
would  have  dreaded  a  change  had  the  thought 
of  one  been  possible. 

A  few  of  the  members,  Burton  among  them, 
may  have  recognized  that  David — to  put  it  bru- 
tally— was  a  bargain.  He  could  not  be  replaced 
for  the  money  he  cost.  The  other  members  were 
content  in  the  thought  that  their  dominie  was 
paid  a  little  more  than  any  minister  in  River- 
bank,  nor  was  it  their  affair  that  the  other  minis- 
ters were  grossly  underpaid.  Certainly  there  was 
always  competition  enough  for  the  Methodist 
pastorate  and  hundreds  of  young  men  would  have 
been  glad  to  succeed  David. 

When  the  six  months — the  term  of  the  note 
David  had  given  Lucille  Hardcome — elapsed  he 
was  unable  to  make  any  reduction  in  its  amount. 
Casting  up  his  accounts  he  found  he  was  not  quite 
able  to  meet  his  bills;  a  new  load  of  debt  was 
accumulating.  He  went  to  her  with  the  interest 
money,  feeling  all  the  distress  of  a  debtor,  and 
she  laughed  at  him.  From  somewhere  in  her 
gilded  escritoire  she  hunted  out  the  note,  took  the 


A   TRAGEDY  271 

new  one  he  proffered,  and  made  the  whole  affair 
seem  trivial.  He  mentioned  the  subscription  she 
had  half,  or  wholly,  promised  and  she  reassured 
him.  Some  houses  she  owned  somewhere  were  not 
rented  at  the  moment ;  she  did  not  like  to  promise 
what  she  could  not  perform  or  could  only  perform 
with  difficulty.  It  would  be  all  right ;  Mr.  Burton 
understood;  she  had  explained  it  to  him.  She 
made  it  seem  a  matter  of  business,  with  the  un- 
rented  houses  and  her  talk  of  taxes,  and  David 
was  no  business  man ;  it  was  not  for  him  to  press 
matters  too  strongly  if  Lucille  and  Burton  had 
come  to  an  understanding.  She  turned  the  con- 
versation to  Alice  and  Ben. 

"Lanny  Welsh  hasn't  been  down  at  all,  has  he?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  once  or  twice,"  David  said. 

"Alice  says  he  is  buying  a  shop  in  Derling- 
port." 

"Has  bought  it.  It  is  one  reason  he  cannot 
come  down." 

Lucille  looked  full  into  David's  eyes. 

"Tell  me!"  she  smiled.  "Don't  I  deserve  to 
know  the  whole!  Has  she  said  anything?" 

"Yes,"  said  David,  "she  has  said  something. 
She  doesn't  know  what  to  do.  She  came  to  me 
for  advice ;  I  told  her  to  trust  her  own  heart. ' ' 

Lucille  laughed  gleefully. 

'•'  These  girls ! "  she  exclaimed.  < '  Well,  you  told 
her  exactly  the  right  thing!  Mr.  Dean,  she  is  in 
love  with  Ben !  She  is  in  love  with  both  of  them, 
of  course,  or  she  is  in  love  with  Love,  as  a  young 


272  DOMINIE    DEAN 

girl  should  be,  and  she  doesn't  know  behind  which 
mask,  Ben's  or  Lanny's,  Love  is  hiding.  She 
will  never  marry  Lanny!" 

"You  are  so  sure?" 

"You  wouldn't  know  the  Ben  I  have  made," 
said  Lucille.  "Ben  does  not  know.  Six  months 
ago  he  had  no  more  of  the  lover  in  him  than  a 
machine  has ;  if  any  youth  was  left,  it  was  drying 
up  while  he  clawed  over  his  business  affairs.  I 
think,"  she  laughed,  "if  I  ever  needed  a  profes- 
sion I  would  take  up  lover-making.  What  do  you 
think  Ben  has  done?" 

David  did  not  hazard  a  guess. 

"Bought  a  shotgun,"  Lucille  laughed.  "Ben 
Derling  going  in  for  sport!  I'd  have  him  learn- 
ing to  dance,  if  dancing  was  proper.  I  believe 
I  am  really  clever,  Mr.  Dean!  I  saw  just  what 
Ben  lacked,  and  I  had  George  Tunnison  come  here 
— he  plays  a  flute  as  horribly  as  anyone  can — and 
I  made  him  talk  ducks  and  quail,  until  Ben's  mus- 
cles twitched.  If  Alice  had  been  a  man  she  would 
be  a  duck  hunter." 

David  smiled  now. 

"She  would,"  he  admitted. 

"So  Ben  is  spending  half  his  spare  time  bang- 
ing at  a  paper  target  with  George,  and  he  brings 
the  targets  to  show  to  Alice.  He  has  bought  a 
shanty  boat  with  George.  It's  Romance!  Danger! 
Manliness!" 

She  laughed  again.  David  smiled,  looking  full 
at  her  with  his  gray  eyes,  amusement  sparkling 
in  them.  He  had  a  little  forelock  curl  that  always 


A   TRAGEDY  273 

lay  on  his  forehead.  Lucille  thought  what  a  boy 
he  was,  and  then — what  a  lover  he  would  be; 
quite  another  sort  from  Ben  Derling.  She  drew  a 
deep  breath,  frightened  by  the  daring  thought 
that  flashed  across  her  mind. 

At  no  time,  I  am  sure,  was  Lucille  Hardcome  in 
love  with  David.  The  pursuit  she  began — or  it 
would  be  better  to  call  it  a  lively  siege — was  no 
more  than  a  wanton  trial  of  her  powers.  She 
was  a  born  schemer,  an  insatiable  intrigante,  lack- 
ing, in  Riverbank — since  she  was  now  social  queen 
and  church  dictator — opportunity  for  the  exer- 
cise of  her  ability.  It  is  doubtful  whether  she  ever 
knew  what  she  wanted  with  David  Dean.  There 
are  cooks  and  chambermaids  who  glory  in  their 
"mashes,"  and  tell  them  over  with  gusto;  they 
collect  "mashes"  as  numismatists  collect  coins, 
and  display  the  finer  specimens  with  great  pride. 
It  may  be  that  Lucille  thought  it  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  make  the  finest  man  she  knew  fall  in  love 
with  her.  The  proof  of  her  power  would  be  all 
the  greater  because  he  was  a  minister  and  mar- 
ried, and  seemingly  proof  against  her  and  all 
other  women. 

'Thusia  was  an  invalid,  and  it  may  have  flashed 
across  Lucille 's  brain  that  'Thusia  might  not 
live  forever;  it  is  more  likely  that  she  did  not 
think  of  a  time  when  David  might  be  free  to 
marry  again.  She  doubtless  thought  it  would  be 
interesting,  and  in  harmony  with  her  character 
as  social  queen,  to  make  a  conquest  of  David, 
and  have  him  dangling.  There  is  no  way  of  tell- 


274  DOMINIE   DEAN 

ing  what  she  thought  or  what  she  wanted  beyond 
what  we  know :  she  came  to  courting  him  so  openly 
that  it  made  talk.  Lucille  had  sufficient  conceit  to 
think  that  no  man  could  withstand  her  if  she  gave 
her  heart  to  a  conquest.  She  did  not  hurry  mat- 
ters. She  had  all  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  all  the 
rest  of  David's,  in  which  to  play  the  game.  For  a 
year  or  two  she  was  satisfied  to  think  that  David 
admired  her  secretly ;  that  he  was  struggling  with 
himself,  and  trying  to  conceal  what  he  felt,  as  a 
man  in  his  position  should.  Instead,  he  was  un- 
aware that  Lucille  was  trying  to  do  anything  un- 
usual. She  had  her  ways  and  her  manners;  she 
was  flamboyant  and  fleshily  impressive.  That 
she  should  coo  like  a  dove-like  cow  might  well  be 
but  another  of  her  manifestations.  David  really 
had  no  idea  what  she  was  getting  at,  or  that  she 
was  getting  at  anything  except — by  seeming  to  be 
on  close  terms  with  the  dominie — strengthening 
her  dominance  in  the  church.  She  had  enveloped 
the  elders  and  the  trustees,  and  now  she  seemed 
to  wish  to  envelop  the  dominie,  after  which  she 
would  grin  like  the  cat  that  swallowed  the  canary. 
David,  having  a  backbone,  stiffened  it,  and  it  was 
then  Lucille  discovered  she  had  teased  herself 
into  a  state  where  a  conquest  of  David  seemed  a 
necessity  to  her  life's  happiness. 

Long  before  she  reached  this  point,  she  had 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  Alice  had  broken 
with  Lanny,  and  was  engaged  to  Ben  Derling. 
The  break  with  Lanny  came  less  than  a  year  after 
Lanny  went  to  Derlingport,  and  was  not  sharp 


A   TRAGEDY  275 

and  angry  but  slow  and  gentle — like  the  separa- 
tion of  a  piece  of  water-soaked  cardboard  into 
parts.  Distance  and  time  worked  for  Lucille; 
propinquity  worked  for  Ben  Derling.  Thirty 
miles  and  eleven  months  were  too  great  for 
Lanny's  personal  charm  to  extend  without  losing 
vigor,  and  Lucille  groomed  Ben,  mentally  and 
otherwise,  and  brought  out  his  best.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  Ben  would  make  the  best  husband 
for  Alice;  he  was  a  born  husband.  No  matter 
what  man  any  girl  picked  it  was  safe  to  say  Ben 
would  make  a  better  husband  than  the  man 
chosen;  it  would  only  remain  for  the  girl  to  be 
able  to  get  Ben,  and  to  feel  that — the  world  being 
what  it  is,  and  perfection  often  the  dullest  thing 
in  it — she  wanted  a  best  husband.  Alice,  aided 
by  Lucille,  decided  that  she  did  want  Ben. 

It  would  be  untruthful  to  deny  that  David  and 
'Thusia  were  pleased.  They  liked  Ben  and  loved 
his  mother;  Lanny's  unfortunate  father  no  longer 
lurked  a  family  menace.  With  these  and  other 
considerations  came,  unasked  but  warming,  the 
thought  that  the  future  would  not  hold  poverty 
for  all  concerned.  It  was  well  that  Alice  need 
not  add  her  poverty  to  David's  and  'Thusia 's,  for 
Roger — well  beloved  as  he  was — seemed  destined 
to  be  helpless  in  money  affairs.  The  George  Tun- 
nison  who  had  been  used  to  tempt  Ben  Derling  to 
so  much  sportiness  as  lay  in  duck  hunting  kept  a 
small  gun  and  sporting  goods  shop — a  novelty  in 
Eiverbank — and  Eoger  had  found  a  berth  there. 
His  ball  playing  made  him  a  local  hero,  and  he  did 


276  DOMINIE   DEAN 

draw  trade,  and  George  gave  him  five  dollars  a 
week.  This  was  to  be  more  when  the  business 
could  afford  it,  which  would  be  never. 

No  time  had  been  set  for  Alice 's  wedding.  Ben 
was  never  in  a  hurry,  and  there  seemed  no  reason 
why  the  wedding  should  be  hastened.  If  Ben 
was  slow  in  other  things  he  was  equally  slow  in 
changing  his  mind  and,  having  once  asked  Alice 
to  marry  him,  he  would  marry  her,  even  if  she 
made  him  wait  ten  years.  Except  for  their  worry 
over  money  matters — for  Lucille  meant  to  with- 
hold her  increased  subscription  as  long  as  the 
withholding  made  the  trustees,  and  especially  Bur- 
ton, fawn  a  little — David  and  'Thusia  were  quite 
happy.  The  engagement  had  brought  Mary  Der- 
ling  closer  than  ever,  and  Rose  Hinch  was  always 
dearer  when  young  love  was  in  the  air.  She  had 
missed  love  in  her  youth,  since  David  was  not 
for  her,  but  her  joy  in  the  young  love  of  others 
was  as  great  as  if  it  had  been  her  own. 

The  day  was  early  in  the  spring,  and  the  hour 
was  late  in  the  afternoon.  David,  just  in  from 
some  call,  had  thrown  his  coat  on  the  hall  rack, 
and  entered  the  study.  He  was  tired,  and  dropped 
into  his  big  easy-chair  half  inclined  to  steal  a  wink 
or  two  before  supper.  In  the  sitting  room  'Thusia 
and  Mary  Derling,  Alice  and  Eose  Hinch,  were 
sewing  and  talking. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  heard  Alice  say; 
"I'm  not  going  to  spoil  my  beautiful  blue  eyes 
sewing  in  this  light." 

He  heard  a  match  scrape,  and  a  strip  of  yellow 


A    TRAGEDY  277 

light  appeared  on  his  worn  carpet.  Against  it 
Alice's  profile,  oddly  distorted,  showed  in  sil- 
houette. Mary's  voice,  asking  if  Alice  saw  her 
scissors,  and  Alice's  reply,  came  faintly.  He 
closed  his  eyes. 

The  jangling  of  the  doorbell  awakened  him. 

" Never  mind,  I'll  use  Eose's,"  he  heard  Mary 
say,  so  brief  had  been  his  drowsing,  and  Alice 
went  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Derling  is  here,"  he  heard  Alice  say 
in  reply  to  a  question  he  could  not  catch.  "Will 
you  come  in!" 

Evidently  not.   Alice  went  into  the  sitting  room. 

"Someone  to  see  you,  Aunt  Mary,"  she  said, 
for  so  she  called  Mary.  "He  won't  come  in." 

Mary  went  to  the  door.  David  heard  her  query- 
ing "Yes?"  and  the  mumbling  voice  of  the  man 
at  the  door  and  Mary's  rapid  questions  and  the 
answers  she  received.  He  reached  the  door  in 
time  to  put  an  arm  around  her  as  she  crumpled 
down.  She  had  grown  stout  in  the  latter  years 
and  her  weight  was  too  much  for  him.  He  lowered 
her  to  the  lowest  hall  step  and  called:  "Rose!" 

Eose  Hinch  came,  trailing  a  length  of  some 
white  material.  She  cast  it  aside,  and  dropped  to 
her  knees  beside  Mary. 

"What  is  it!"  she  asked,  looking  up  at  David. 

"I  think  she  fainted,"  he  said.  "Ben  is  dead 
— is  drowned." 

"Ah!"  cried  Eose  in  horror  and  sympathy  and 
put  her  hand  on  Mary's  heart. 

' '  And  Eoger, ' '  said  David.    ' '  Eoger,  too ! " 


YYTTT 
SCANDAL 

THE  bodies  were  recovered,  had  been  re- 
covered before  George  Tunnison  started  on 
the  long  trip  back  to  Eiverbank.  It  seemed 
that  Ben  could  not  swim,  and  when  the  skiff  turned 
over  he  grasped  Roger,  and  they  both  went  down. 
The  river  was  covered  with  floating  ice.  Tunni- 
son, according  to  his  own  account,  did  what  he 
could,  but  if  the  two  came  up  it  must  have  been 
to  find  the  floating  ice  between  them  and  the  air. 
They  were  beyond  resuscitation  when  they  were 
found.  Of  Mary  the  doctor's  verdict  was  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  heart ;  any  shock  would  have 
killed  her. 

In  the  sad  days  and  weeks  that  followed  Rose 
flinch  was  the  comforter,  offering  no  words  but 
making  her  presence  a  balm.  She  neither  asked 
nor  suggested  that  she  come,  but  came  and  made 
her  home  in  the  manse.  It  is  difficult  to  express 
how  she  helped  David  and  'Thusia  and  doubly 
bereaved  Alice  and  querulous  old  Mr.  Fragg  over 
the  hard  weeks.  She  was  Life  Proceeding  As  It 
Must.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  she  was  the 
normal  life  of  the  family,  continuing  from  where 
sorrow  had  wrenched  David  and  'Thusia  and  Alice 
and  the  grandfather  from  it,  and,  by  mute  ex- 

278 


SCANDAL  279 

ample,  urging  them  to  live  again.  Her  presence 
was  comfort.  Her  manner  was  a  sweet  suggestion 
that  life  must  still  be  lived.  She  made  the  grand- 
father's bed  in  Koger's  room,  for  a  room  vacated 
by  death  is  an  invitation  to  sorrow;  she  began 
the  sewing  where  it  had  been  dropped,  and 
'Thusia  and  Alice,  because  Kose  sewed,  took  their 
needles.  Work  was  what  they  needed.  They 
missed  Mary  every  hour,  and  David  missed  her 
most,  for  she  had  been  his  ablest  assistant  in 
his  town  charities,  but  the  greater  work  thrown 
on  him  by  her  going  was  the  best  thing  to  keep  his 
mind  off  the  loss  that  caused  it,  and  Rose  Hinch 
intentionally  refrained  from  giving  her  usual 
aid  in  order  that  the  work  might  fill  his  time  the 
more.  Lucille  Hardcome  alone — no  one  could 
have  made  Lucille  understand — doubled  her  as- 
sistance. The  annoyance  her  ill-considered  help 
caused  him  was  also  good  for  David ;  it  too  helped 
him  to  forget  other  things. 

Grandfather  Fragg  died  within  the  year.  Rose 
had  long  since  left  the  manse,  unwilling  to  be  an 
expense  after  she  was  no  longer  needed,  and  had 
taken  up  her  nursing  again,  for  she  was  always 
in  demand.  As  each  six  months  ended  David  car- 
ried a  new  note  to  Lucille,  and  had  a  new  battle 
with  her,  for  she  wanted  no  note;  she  urged  him 
to  consider  the  loan  a  gift.  This  he  would  not 
listen  to.  He  had  cut  his  expenses  to  the  lowest 
possible  figure,  and  was  able  to  pay  Lucille  a 
little  each  time  now — fifty  dollars,  or  twenty-five, 
or  whatever  sum  it  was  possible  to  save.  He 


280  DOMINIE    DEAN 

managed  to  keep  out  of  debt.  Alice,  who  had 
rightly  asked  new  frocks  and  this  and  that  when 
Ben  was  alive,  seemed  to  want  nothing  whatever. 
She  did  not  mope  but  she  seemed  to  consider  her 
life  now  ordered,  not  completed,  but  to  be  as  it 
now  was.  She  was  dearer  to  David  and  'Thusia 
than  ever,  and  they  did  not  urge  her  to  desert 
them.  In  time  she  would,  they  hoped,  forget  and 
be  young  again,  but  she  waited  too  long,  and  they 
let  her,  and  she  was  never  to  leave  them.  Her  in- 
difference to  things  outside  the  manse  and  the 
church  permitted  David  to  save  a  few  dollars  he 
might  otherwise  have  spent  on  her.  So  few  were 
they  that  what  he  was  able  to  pay  Lucille  repre- 
sented it. 

For  some  time  after  the  tragedy  that  had  come 
so  suddenly  David  had  no  heart  to  take  up  the 
question  he  had  discussed  with  the  banker.  Bur- 
ton, of  course,  said  nothing  when  not  approached, 
regarding  the  increase  in  David's  stipend.  He 
did  mention  to  David,  however,  the  desired  in- 
crease in  Lucille 's  subscription,  and  with  the 
death  of  Mary  Derling  this  increase  became  more 
desirable  than  ever.  Old  Sam  Wiggett  and,  after 
his  death,  Mary,  had  been  the  most  liberal  sup- 
porters of  the  church.  It  was  found,  when  Mary's 
will  was  read,  that  she  had  left  the  church  ten 
thousand  dollars  as  an  endowment.  Of  this  only 
the  interest  could  be  used,  and  her  contributions, 
with  what  Ben  gave,  had  amounted  to  far  more — 
to  several  hundred  dollars  more. 

More  than  ever  Lucille  loomed  large  as  the  most 


SCANDAL  281 

important  member  of  the  church.  With  the  wip- 
ing out  of  the  last  of  the  Wiggett  strain  in  Biver- 
bank,  the  Wiggett  money  went  to  Derlings  in 
other  places,  and  Lucille  became,  by  promotion, 
seemingly  the  wealthiest  Presbyterian.  Burton 
wrinkled  his  brow  over  the  church  finances,  but, 
luckily,  no  repairs  were  needed,  and  there  was  a 
little  money  in  the  bank,  and  Mary's  endowment 
legacy  made  his  statements  look  well  on  paper. 
I  think  you  can  understand  how  the  trustees  and 
the  church  went  ahead  placidly,  month  following 
month,  unworried,  because  feeling  sure  Lucille 
would  presently  do  well  by  the  church.  She  was 
like  a  rich  uncle  always  about  to  die  and  leave  a 
fortune,  but  never  dying.  It  was  understood  that 
when  her  investments  were  satisfactorily  ar- 
ranged she  would  act.  At  first  this  reason  may 
have  been  real,  but  Lucille  knew  the  value  of 
being  sought.  Like  the  rich,  undying  uncle 
she  commanded  more  respect  as  a  prospective 
giver  than  she  would  have  received  having 
given. 

It  was  extremely  distasteful  to  David  to  have 
to  ask  Lucille  -to  give ;  it  seemed  like  asking  her 
to  pay  herself  what  he  owed  her,  and  when  he 
had  done  his  duty  by  asking  her  several  times,  he 
agreed  with  Burton  that  the  banker  could  handle 
the  matter  best.  A  year,  more  or  less,  after  Mary 
Derling's  death  the  banker  was  able  to  announce 
that  Lucille  had  agreed  to  give  two  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year  more  than  she  had  been  giving,  and 
that  as  soon  as  she  was  able  she  would  give  more. 


282  DOMINIE   DEAN 

She  spoke  of  the  two  hundred  dollars  as  a  trifle. 
It  brought  the  church  income  to  about  where  it 
had  been  before  Mary  Derling's  death. 

Without  actually  formulating  the  idea,  Lucille 
had  suggested  to  herself  that  she  would  celebrate 
her  conquest  of  David  Dean  by  increasing  her 
yearly  gift  to  the  church  to  the  utmost  she  could 
afford.  Her  blind  self-admiration  led  her  to  think 
she  was  making  progress.  David  was  always  the 
kindest  of  men,  gentle  and  showing  the  pleasure 
he  felt  in  having  companionship  in  good  works, 
and  Lucille  probably  mistook  this  for  a  narrower, 
personal  admiration.  It  was  inevitable  that  he 
should  be  intimate  with  her,  she  directed  so  many 
of  the  church  activities.  If  he  were  to  speak  of 
the  choir,  the  Sunday  school,  church  dinners,  any 
of  a  dozen  things,  he  must  speak  to  Lucille.  They 
were  often  together.  They  walked  up  the  hill 
from  church  together,  Banker  Burton  often  with 
them ;  Lucille,  in  her  low-hung  carriage,  frequently 
carried  David  to  visit  his  sick,  and  he  considered 
it  thoughtful  kindness. 

Many  in  Eiverbank  still  remember  David  Dean, 
as  he  sat  back  against  the  maroon  cushions  of  the 
Hardcome  carriage,  Lucille  erect  and  never  silent. 
He  seemed  weary  during  those  years — for  Lucille 
courted  him  slowly — but  he  never  faltered  in  his 
work.  If  anything  he  was  doubly  useful  to  the 
town,  and  doubly  helpful  and  inspiring  to  his 
church  people.  Sorrow  had  mellowed  him  without 
breaking  him.  He  had  been  with  Lucille  on  a 
visit  to  a  boy,  one  of  the  Sunday  school  lads  who 


SCANDAL  283 

had  broken  a  leg,  and  Lucille  ha<jl  taken  a  bag  of 
oranges.  The  house  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
town,  and  Lucille  drove  through  the  main  street, 
stopping  at  the  post  office  to  let  David  get  his  mail. 
He  met  some  friend  in  the  office,  and  came  out 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  his  mail  in  his  hand. 
Lucille  dropped  him  at  the  manse.  He  walked 
to  the  little  porch  and  sat  there,  tearing  open  the 
few  unimportant  letters,  and  glancing  at  the  con- 
tents. There  was  one  paper,  and  he  tore  off  the 
wrapper.  It  was  the  Declarator.  He  tore  it  twice 
across,  and  then  curiosity,  or  a  desire  to  know 
what  he  might  have  to  battle  against,  made  him 
open  the  sheet  and  look  at  the  " Briefs."  The 
column  began: 

"It  is  entirely  proper  for  a  minister  of  the 
gospel  to  ride  hither  and  yon  with  whomsoever  he 
chooses,  male  or  female,  wife  or  widow,  when  his 
debts  are  paid.  We  should  love  our  neighbors." 

"A  minister  of  the  gospel  is,  like  Caesar's  wife, 
above  suspicion.  Honi  soit!  Shame  upon  you  for 
thinking  evil  of  the  spotless." 

David  read  to  the  bottom  of  the  column.  It 
was  stupid  venom,  the  slime  of  a  pen  grown  al- 
most childish,  lacking  even  the  sparkle  of  wit, 
but  it  was  aimed  so  directly  at  him  that  he  burned 
with  resentment.  The  last  line  was  the  vilest: 
"Who  paid  the  parson's  debts?"  suggesting  the 
truth  that  Lucille  had  paid  them,  as  the  rest  of 
the  column  suggested  that  she  and  David  were 


284  DOMINIE   DEAN 

more  intimate  than  they  should  be.  He  sat  hold- 
ing the  paper  until  'Thusia  called  him.  Before 
he  went  to  her  he  walked  to  the  kitchen,  and 
burned  the  paper  in  the  kitchen  stove,  and  washed 
his  hands. 


xxrv 

EESULTS 

THE  following  day  was  Sunday.  Lucille,  who 
had  received  and  read  the  Declarator,  was 
present  at  both  morning  and  evening  serv- 
ices, as  usual,  and  took  her  full  part  in  the  Sunday 
school  in  the  afternoon.  Welsh's  column  had  an- 
noyed her,  undoubtedly,  but  in  another  way  than 
it  had  annoyed  David.  To  David  it  had  seemed 
the  cruel  and  unfounded  spitefulness  of  a  wicked- 
minded  old  man ;  to  Lucille  it  was  as  if  Welsh  had 
guessed  close  to  the  truth,  but  had  carried  his 
imagination  too  far.  It  had  made  her  furiously 
angry,  as  such  a  thing  would,  but  she  felt  that  it 
would  do  her  little  harm.  Welsh  was  known  to 
be  so  vile  that  she  had  but  to  hold  her  head  high, 
and  the  town  and  her  friends  would  think  none 
the  less  of  her  for  the  attack.  Those  who  did  be- 
lieve it,  if  there  were  any,  would  by  their  belief  be 
offering  her  a  sort  of  incense  she  coveted. 

Several  spoke  to  David  about  the  column,  and 
all  with  genuine  indignation.  The  story  of 
Welsh's  attack  had  spread,  of  course,  but  none  of 
us  who  knew  David  Dean  thought  one  iota  of  truth 
was  in  it;  the  thing  was  preposterous.  It  came 
down  to  this:  David  Dean  was  not  the  kind  of 
man  of  which  such  things  were  possible.  We  did 


286  DOMINIE   DEAN 

not  believe  it  then,  and  we  never  believed  it.  The 
town  did  not  believe  it ;  even  his  few  enemies  knew 
him  better  than  to  believe  such  a  thing;  Welsh 
himself  did  not  believe  it.  But  Lucille  Hardcome 
did,  conceit-blinded  creature  that  she  was! 

Some  day  during  the  week,  Wednesday  it  may 
have  been,  she  drove  her  low-hung  carriage  to  the 
manse.  The  driver's  seat  was  a  flat  affair  on 
X-shaped  iron  rods,  so  arranged  that  it  could  be 
turned  back  out  of  the  way  when  Lucille  wished 
to  drive  and  dispense  with  her  coachman,  and  she 
was  driving  now.  David  came  to  the  door,  and 
went  in  to  get  his  hat.  He  wished  to  visit  the  same 
broken-legged  boy,  and  the  carriage  was  a  grate- 
ful assistance.  He  spread  the  thin  lap  robe  over 
his  legs,  and  Lucille  touched  the  horses  with  the 
whip. 

"Jimmy's  first?"  she  asked,  and  David  as- 
sented. 

"You  have  oranges  again,  I  see,"  he  said. 
"How  he  enjoys  them!" 

"Doesn't  he?"  Lucille  replied,  and  then:  "I'm 
glad  you  do  not  mean  to  let  that  Declarator  article 
make  any  difference.  I  was  afraid  it  might.  You 
are  so  sensitive,  David." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  David. 
Mary  had  called  him  that,  and  Rose  did ;  he  was 
David  to  many  of  us ;  but  the  name  did  not  sound 
right  coming  from  Lucille 's  mouth.  She  was  so 
lordly,  so  queenly,  usually  so  rather  grandly  aloof, 
calling  even  dear  Thusia  "Mrs.  Dean,"  and  Rose 
"Miss  Hinch." 


RESULTS  287 

"Sensitive?  I  have  never  thought  that  of  my- 
self," he  answered. 

"Oh,  but  you  are!"  she  said.  "I  know  you  so 
well,  you  see.  I  almost  feared  that  article  would 
frighten  you  away;  make  you  afraid  of  me.  As 
if  you  and  I  need  be  afraid  of  each  other ! ' ' 

"I'm  sure  we  need  not  be,"  David  answered, 
and  she  glanced  at  his  face.  She  did  not  quite  like 
the  tone. 

"I  thought  you  might  not  come  with  me  to- 
day," she  said.  "If  you  had  suggested  that,  I 
meant  to  rebel,  naturally.  Now,  if  ever,  that 
would  be  a  mistake.  That  would  be  the  very  thing 
to  make  people  talk.  Your  friendship  means  too 
much  to  me  to  let  it  be  interrupted  by  what  people 
say." 

"It  need  not  be  interrupted,"  said  David. 

"It  means  so  much  more  to  me  than  you  im- 
agine," Lucille  said.  "Often  I  think  you  don't 
realize  how  empty  my  life  was  when  I  began  to 
know  you.  You  are  so  modest,  so  self-effacing, 
you  do  not  know  your  worth.  If  you  knew  the 
full  story  of  my  childhood  and  girlhood,  so  empty 
and  loveless,  and  even  my  short  year  of  married 
life,  so  lacking  in  love,  you  would  know  what  your 
friendship  has  meant.  Just  to  know  a  man  like 
you  meant  so  much.  It  gave  life  a  new  meaning." 

Unfortunately  you  cannot  see  Lucille  Hardcome 
as  David  saw  her  when  he  turned  his  face  toward 
her,  perplexed  by  her  words,  not  able  to  believe 
what  her  tone  implied,  until  he  saw  her  face.  She 
had  grown  heavier  in  the  years  she  had  been  in 


288  DOMINIE   DEAN 

Eiverbank,  and  flabbier — or  flabby — for  she  was 
not  that  when  she  came  to  the  town.  She  wore 
one  of  the  flamboyant  hats  she  affected,  and  she 
was  beautifully  overdressed.  The  red  of  her 
cheeks  was  too  deep  to  be  natural.  She  was  arti- 
ficial and  the  artificiality  extended  to  her  mind 
and  her  heart,  and  could  not  but  be  apparent  to 
one  so  sincere  as  David  Dean.  Her  very  words 
were  artificial,  as  she  spoke.  The  same  words 
coming  from  another  woman  would  have  been  the 
sincere  cry  of  a  heart  thankful  for  the  friendship 
David  had  given;  coming  from  Lucille  they 
sounded  false;  they  sounded,  as  they  were,  the 
love-making  of  a  shallow  woman. 

David  was  frightened ;  he  was  as  frightened  as 
a  boy  who  suddenly  finds  himself  enfolded  in  the 
arms  of  a  lovesick  cook,  half  smothered,  and  only 
anxious  to  kick  himself  out  of  the  sudden  embrace. 
He  saw,  as  if  a  dozen  curtains  of  gauze  had  sud- 
denly been  withdrawn,  the  meaning  of  many  of 
Lucille 's  words  and  actions  he  had  formerly  seen 
through  the  veils  of  misunderstanding.  There 
was  something  comical  in  his  dismay.  He  wanted 
to  jump  from  the  low-hung  carriage  and  run.  He 
said: 

"Yes.    I'm  quite  sure — " 

"So  it  means  so  much  to  me  that  we  are  not  to 
let  anything  make  a  difference,"  Lucille  con- 
tinued. "I  think  we  need  each  other.  In  your 
work  a  woman's  sympathy — " 

"I  think  I'll  have  to  get  out,"  David  said.  "I'll 
just  run  in  here  and — " 


RESULTS  289 

He  waved  a  hand  toward  a  shop  at  the  side  of 
the  street.  It  happened  to  be  a  tobacconist's,  but 
he  did  not  notice  that.  He  threw  the  lap  robe  from 
his  knees,  and  put  a  foot  out  of  the  carriage.  Lu- 
cille was  surprised.  She  stopped  her  horses.  She 
thought  David  might  mean  to  buy  a  package  of 
tobacco  for  some  old  man  he  had  in  mind.  He> 
stepped  to  the  walk.  Once  there  he  felt  safer ;  his 
wits  returned. 

"I  think  I'll  walk,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said. 
"  I  need  the  exercise.   No,  really,  I  '11  walk.   Thank 
you." 
,    Lucille  looked  after  him. 

"Well ! ' '  she  exclaimed,  and  then : ' 'I'm  through 
with  you,  Mr.  David  Dean!" 

She  thought  she  was  haughtily  indifferent,  but 
at  heart  she  was  furiously  angry.  She  turned  her 
horses,  and  drove  home.  To  prove  how  indifferent 
she  was  she  told  her  coachman,  in  calm  tones,  to 
grease  the  harness  and,  entering  the  house,  she 
told  her  maid  to  wash  the  parlor  windows.  She 
went  to  her  room  quite  calmly  and  thought: 
"What  impudence!  He  imagined  I  was  making 
love  to  him!"  and  then,  as  evidence  that  she  was 
calm  and  untroubled,  she  seated  herself  at  her 
desk,  and  wrote  a  calm  and  businesslike  note  to 
David  Dean.  It  said  that,  as  she  was  in  some  need 
of  money,  she  would  have  to  ask  that  his  note  be 
paid  as  soon  as  it  fell  due.  She  still  believed  she 
was  not  angry,  but  how  does  that  line  go?  Is  it 
"Earth  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned"? 


XXV 

LUCILLE  LOSES 

WHEN  it  was  announced  that  Lucille  Hard- 
come  was  to  marry  B.  C.  Burton  Biver- 
bank  was  interested,  but  not  surprised. 
The  banker  went  up  and  down  the  hill,  from  and 
to  his  business,  quite  as  usual,  but  with  a  little 
warmer  and  more  ready  smile  for  those  he  met. 
He  accepted  congratulations  gracefully.  After 
the  wedding,  which  was  quite  an  event,  with  a 
caterer  from  Chicago,  and  the  big  house  lighted 
from  top  to  bottom  and  every  coach  the  town 
liverymen  owned  making  half  a  dozen  trips  apiece, 
there  was  a  wedding  journey  to  Cuba.  When  the 
bridal  couple  returned  to  Riverbank  Lucille  drove 
B.  C.  to  and  from  the  bank  in  the  low-hung  car- 
riage, and  B.  C.  changed  his  abode  from  his  own 
house  to  Lucille 's.  Otherwise  the  marriage 
seemed  to  make  little  difference.  For  Dominie 
Dean  it  made  this  difference :  the  only  trustee  who 
had,  of  late  years,  shown  any  independence  lost 
even  the  little  he  had  shown.  Having  married  Lu- 
cille, he  became  no  more  than  her  representative 
on  the  board  of  trustees. 

Never  a  forceful  man,  Burton  became  milder 
and  gentler  than  ever  after  his  marriage.  He  had 
not  married  Lucille  under  false  colors  (Lucille  had 


LUCILLE   LOSES  291 

married  B.  C. ;  had  reached  for  him  and  absorbed 
him),  but,  without  caring  much,  she  had  imagined 
him  a  wealthy  man.  When  it  developed  that  he 
had  almost  nothing  but  his  standing  as  a  suave 
and  respected  banker,  Lucille,  while  saying  noth- 
ing, gently  put  him  in  his  place,  as  her  wedded 
pensioner.  She  had  hoped  she  would  be  able  to 
put  on  him  the  burden  of  her  rather  complicated 
affairs,  but  when  she  guessed  his  inefficiency  as  a 
money-manager  for  himself,  she  gave  up  the 
thought.  Lucille  continued  to  manage  her  own 
fortune.  She  financed  the  house.  All  this  made 
of  B.  C.  a  very  meek  and  gentle  husband.  He  did 
nothing  to  annoy  Lucille.  He  was  particularly 
careful  to  avoid  doing  anything  to  annoy  Lucille. 
He  became,  more  than  ever,  a  highly  respectable 
nonentity.  Having,  for  many  years,  successfully 
prevented  the  town  from  guessing  that  he  was  a 
mere  figurehead  for  the  bank,  he  had  little  trouble 
in  preventing  it  from  saying  too  loudly  that  he 
was  only  not  henpecked  because  he  never  raised 
his  crest  in  matters  concerning  Lucille,  except  at 
her  suggestion. 

Lucille  did  not  marry  B.  C.  to  salve  her  self-con- 
ceit only ;  not  solely.  She  felt  the  undercurrent  of 
comment  that  followed  Welsh's  ugly  attack  in  the 
Declarator.  She  feared  that  people  would  say  if 
they  said  anything:  " David  Dean  is  not  that  kind 
of  man"  and  "Lucille  Hardcome  probably  thought 
nothing  of  the  sort,  but  she  is  that  kind  of 
woman."  Marrying  B.  C.  Burton  was  her  way  of 
showing  Riverbank  she  had  never  cared  for  David 


292  DOMINIE    DEAN 

Dean.  It  also  gave  her  a  secure  position  of  promi- 
nence in  Riverbank.  Her  house  was  now  a  home, 
and  we  think  very  highly  of  homes  in  Eiverbank. 
None  the  less  Lucille  still  burned  with  resentment 
against  David  Dean.  The  mere  sight  of  him  was 
an  accusation ;  seeing  him  afflicted  her  pride. 

The  dominie  went  about  his  duties  as  usual. 
Then  or  later  we  saw  no  change  in  David  Dean, 
although  we  must  have  known  how  Lucille  was 
using  every  effort  to  turn  the  trustees  and  the 
church  against  him.  He  must  have  had,  too,  a 
sense  of  undeserved  but  ineradicable  defilement, 
the  result  of  P.  K.  Welsh's  virulence.  You  know 
how  such  things  cling  to  even  the  most  innocent. 
If  nothing  more  is  said  than  "It  is  too  bad  it  hap- 
pened," it  has  its  faintly  damning  effect  on  us.  We 
won  for  David  at  last,  but  Lucille 's  fight  to  drive 
him  away  had  its  effect.  At  home  David  hesitated 
over  every  penny  spent,  cut  his  expenses  to  the 
lowest  possible,  in  an  effort  to  pay  Lucille  as  much 
as  he  might  when  the  note  came  due.  He  had  no 
hope  of  paying  it  in  full. 

Pay  it,  however,  h^  did.  One  afternoon  Eose 
Hinch  came  into  his  study  and  closed  the  door. 

" David,"  she  said,  "you  surely  know  that  I 
know  you  owe  Lucille  something — some  money?" 

"I  suppose  you  do,  Eose,"  he  said  sadly. 
"Everyone  knows!" 

' '  'Thusia  told  me  long  ago, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  asked 
her  about  it  again  to-day.  I  would  rather  you 
owed  it  to  me,  David." 

She  had  the  money  with  her,  and  she  held  it 


LUCILLE   LOSES  293 

toward  him  questioningly.  He  took  it.  That  was 
all;  there  was  no  question  of  a  note  or  of  repay- 
ment; no  spoken  thanks.  He  was  not  surprised 
that  Rose  had  saved  so  much  out  of  her  earn- 
ings, neither  did  he  hesitate  to  take  the  money 
from  her,  for  he  knew  she  offered  it  in  all  the  kind- 
ness of  her  heart.  He  hoped,  too,  that  by  scrimp- 
ing, as  he  had  been,  he  could  repay  her  in  time. 

'Thusia  was  neither  better  nor  worse  in  health 
than  she  had  been.  Bright  and  cheerful,  she  had 
learned  the  great  secret  of  patience. 

"If  I  must  go,"  David  told  her  when  there  was 
no  doubt  that  Lucille  had  set  her  heart  on  driving 
him  from  Eiverbank,  "I  will  go,  of  course;  but 
until  I  know  I  am  not  wanted  I  will  do  my  work 
as  usual,"  and  'Thusia  was  with  him  in  that. 

In  the  long  battle,  never  above  the  surface,  that 
Lucille  carried  on,  David  never  openly  fought  her. 
He  fought  by  being  David  Dean,  and  by  doing, 
day  by  day,  as  he  had  done  for  years.  He  visited 
his  sick,  preached  his  sermons,  busied  himself  as 
always.  The  weapons  Lucille  used  were  those  a 
woman  powerful  in  a  congregation  has  always  at 
hand  if  she  chooses  to  try  to  oust  her  pastor,  and 
in  addition  she  used  her  husband. 

Here  and  there  she  dropped  hints  that  David 
was  not  as  satisfactory  as  formerly.  His  sermons 
were  lacking  in  something.  Was  it  culture  or  sin- 
cerity? she  asked — and  she  questioned  the  ad- 
visability of  long  tenure  of  a  pulpit.  By  hint  and 
question  she  tried  to  arouse  dissatisfaction.  It' 
was  the  custom  for  ministers  to  exchange  pulpits ; 


294  DOMINIE   DEAN 

she  was  loud  in  praise  of  whatever  minister  occu- 
pied David's  pulpit  for  a  day. 

Slowly  she  built  up  the  dissatisfaction,  until  she 
felt  it  could  be  crystallized  into  a  concrete  opposi- 
tion. She  was  a  year  or  more  doing  this.  With 
all  the  wile  of  a  political  boss  she  spread  the  seed 
of  discontent,  trusting  it  would  fall  on  fertile  soil. 
There  were  plenty  of  toadying  women  who  gave 
her  lip  agreement  when  she  uttered  her  disparage- 
ments, and  at  length  she  felt  she  could  strike 
openly.  She  used  B.  C.  for  the  purpose. 

B.  C.  did  not  relish  the  job.  Like  most  of  us 
he  admired  David,  and  had  high  esteem  for  him, 
but  Lucille 's  husband  would  have  been  the  last 
man  to  oppose  Lucille.  It  really  seemed  an  easy 
task.  Lucille  was  an  undisputed  ruler  in  the 
church;  the  trustees  were  nonentities;  the  older 
members — those  who  had  loved  the  young  David 
in  his  first  years  in  Eiverbank — were  dead  or 
senile.  B.  C.  spoke  of  the  finances  when  he 
broached  the  matter  of  getting  rid  of  David,  and 
he  had  lists  and  tables  to  show  that  the  income 
of  the  church  had  been  stagnant.  He  suggested 
that  a  younger  man,  someone  livelier,  was  needed 
— a  money-raiser. 

The  trustees  listened  in  silence.  For  some  min- 
utes after  B.  C.  had  spoken  no  one  answered. 
Then  one  man— the  last  man  B.  C.  would  have 
feared— suggested  mildly  that  Eiverbank  itself 
had  not  grown.  He  ventured  to  say  that  Eiver- 
bank, to  his  notion,  had  fewer  people  than  five 
years  before,  and  all  the  churches  were  having 


LUCILLE   LOSES  295 

trouble  in  keeping  their  incomes  up  to  their  ex- 
penses. He  said  he  rather  liked  David  Dean;  any- 
way he  didn't  think  a  change  need  be  made  right 
away.  They  might,  he  thought,  ask  some  of  the 
church  members  and  get  their  opinions.  He  said 
he  did  not  believe  they  could  get  a  man  equal  to 
David  for  the  same  money. 

B.  C.  was  taken  aback.  If  he  had  spoken  at 
once  he  might  have  held  his  control  of  the  board, 
but  he  stopped  to  think  of  Lucille  and  what  she 
would  wish  him  to  say,  and  the  daring  trustee 
spoke  again. 

" Seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "the  trouble  is  not 
with  the  dominie.  Seems  to  me  we  trustees  ought 
to  try  to  get  more  money  from  some  of  the  mem- 
bers who  can  afford  to  give  more." 

He  had  not  aimed  at  B.  C.  and  Lucille,  but  B.  C. 
colored.  One  shame  that  lurked  in  his  heart  was 
that  Lucille  had  never  kept  her  promise  to  give 
more  to  the  church,  and  that  he  did  not  dare  ask 
her  to  give  more  now. 

"I  can  assure  you,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  feel  like 
giving  more — if  you  mean  me — while  Dean  re- 
mains." 

"Oh!  I  didn't  mean  anyone  in  particular,"  the 
trustee  said.  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  you,  B.  C." 

The  fact  remained  imbedded  in  the  brains  of 
the  trustees  that  Lucille  and  B.  C.  would  give  no 
more  unless  David  was  sent  away.  This  leaked, 
as  such  things  will,  and  those  of  us  who  loved 
David  were  properly  incensed.  Some  of  us  were 
tired  enough  of  Lucille 's  high-handed  rulership 


296  DOMINIE    DEAN 

and  we  said  openly  what  we  thought  of  her  carry- 
jng  it  to  the  point  of  making  herself  dictator  of 
the  pulpit,  to  dismiss  and  call  at  her  will.  There 
was  a  vast  amount  of  whisper  and  low-toned 
wordiness,  subsurface  complaint  and  counter-com- 
plaint. There  was  no  open  flare-up  such  as  had 
marked  the  earlier  dissensions  in  the  church,  but 
Lucille  and  her  closest  friends  could  not  but  feel 
the  resentment  and  her  growing  unpopularity.  A 
winter  rain  brought  her  a  fortunate  cold,  and  she 
turned  the  Sunday  school  singing  over  to  one  of 
the  younger  women.  She  never  took  it  up  again. 
The  same  excuse  served  to  allow  her  to  drop  out 
of  the  management  of  the  church  music.  Her  cold, 
actually  or  from  policy,  hung  on  for  the  greater 
part  of  that  winter,  preventing  her  from  attending 
church.  With  the  next  election  of  trustees  B.  C. 
refused  reelection,  pleading  an  increase  of  work 
at  the  bank,  and  when  next  Lucille  went  to  church 
she  sat  under  the  Episcopalian  minister.  Several 
of  her  friends  followed  her ;  few  as  they  were,  their 
going  made  a  sad  hole  in  the  church  income  and, 
with  the  closing  of  the  mills  and  Eiverbank  seem- 
ingly about  to  sink  into  a  sort  of  deserted  village 
condition,  there  followed  years  in  which  the  trus- 
tees were  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  things  going.  Be- 
fore the  inevitable  reduction  in  David's  salary 
came,  he  was  able  to  pay  Eose  Hinch,  and  that, 
in  the  later  years,  was  one  of  the  things  he  was 
thankful  for. 


XXVI 
"OUR  DAVID" 

1GET  back  to  Eiverbank  but  seldom.  I  have 
just  returned  from  one  of  my  infrequent  visits 
there,  the  first  in  many  years.  First  I  had 
my  business  to  attend  to ;  later,  at  the  office  of  the 
lawyer  and  on  the  street,  I  met  many  of  those  I 
had  known  when  I  lived  in  Eiverbank.  The  faces 
of  most  puzzled  me,  being  not  quite  remembered. 
My  memory  had  to  struggle  to  recognize  them,  as 
if  it  saw  the  faces  through  a  ground  glass  on 
which  it  had  to  breathe  before  they  became  clear. 
Many  seemed  glad  to  see  me  again  and  that  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  me.  It  was  almost  like  a  game 
of  "hidden  faces"  but  with  faces  of  living  men 
and  women  to  be  guessed.  This  all  happened  m 
the  first  hour  or  so  after  I  had  finished  my  busi- 
ness, and  rapidly,  and  then  I  turned  from  one  of 
these  resurrected  faces  to  find  a  young  girl  stand- 
ing waiting  to  speak  to  me. 

"You  don't  remember  me,"  she  said  with  a 
smile,  because  she  saw  my  puzzled  face.  "I  was 
a  baby  when  you  went  away.  Dora  Graham.  You 
wouldn't  remember  me.  Mack  Graham  is  my 
father.  I  dared  to  speak  to  you  because  father 
has  spoken  of  you  so  often — of  you  and  Mr. 
Dean." 


298  DOMINIE   DEAN 

"Oh,  I  do  remember  Mack!'*  I  exclaimed.  "I 
must  see  Mm  if  I  can  before  I  go." 

" Please,"  she  said.  "It  would  mean  so  much 
to  him." 

She  was  not  too  well-dressed.  She  reminded  me 
of  Alice  Dean  in  the  days  when  Lanny  was  court- 
ing her,  making  the  bravest  show  she  could  with 
her  cheap,  neat  hat  and  neat,  inexpensive  gar- 
ments. I  guessed  that  Mack  Graham  was  not  one 
of  the  town's  new  rich  men. 

"I'll  see  him  if  I  have  to  stay  over  a  day,"  I 
told  her.  "And  our  dominie,  Dominie  Dean,  you 
can  tell  me  how  to  get  to  his  house  f ' ' 

"I'm  just  from  there,"  she  said.  "Are  you 
going  to  see  him?  He  will  be  so  pleased ;  he  spoke 
about  you.  You  know  he  is  very  poor?  It's  piti- 
ful; it  makes  my  heart  ache  every  time  I  go 
there." 

"But  I  thought—"  I  said. 

"About  his  being  made  pastor  emeritus?  Yes, 
they  did  that  for  him.  Father  made  them  do  that, 
when  they  were  going  to  drop  him  out  of  the 
church  as  they  always  used  to  drop  the  old  men. 
Father  fought  for  that.  We  were  so  proud  of 
father,  mother  and  I.  He  was  like  a  rock,  like  a 
mountain  of  rock,  about  it.  They  were  afraid  of 
him.  But  the  money  was  nothing,  almost  noth- 
ing." 

"How  much?"  I  asked,  but  she  did  not  know 
that.  She  only  knew  that  it  must  be  very  little; 
the  new  dominie  would  not  come  for  what  had 


"OUR   DAVID"  299 

been  paid  David;  there  had  not  been  much  to  spare 
for  a  discarded  and  worn-out  old  man. 

I  walked  up  the  hill  and  over  the  hill  and  down, 
the  other  side,  to  where  the  cheap  little  cottages 
stand  in  a  row  facing  the  deserted  brickyard  which 
will,  some  day,  be  town  lots.  I  found  David  on 
the  little  porch,  sitting  in  the  sun,  and  he  arose  as 
I  entered  the  gate,  and  stood  waiting  to  grasp  my 
hand,  although  he  could  not  yet  see  me  distinctly 
enough  to  recognize  me;  his  eyes  were  failing,  he 
told  me. 

He  was  very  feeble,  but  as  gently  cheerful  as 
ever,  still  striving  to  keep  an  even  mind  under  all 
circumstances.  Alice  came  out  when  she  heard 
us  talking;  she  looked  older,  in  worry,  than  her 
father.  It  was  evident  they  were  very  poor. 

I  went  up  to  see  'Thiisia.  I  did  not  mind  the 
narrow  stairs  nor  the  low-ceiled  room  in  which 
I  found  her,  for  a  home  and  happiness  may  be 
anywhere,  but  I  felt  a  hot,  personal  shame  that 
anything  quite  so  mean  should  be  the  reward  of 
our  David. 

It  was  harder  to  speak  cheerfully  with  'Thusia 
than  with  David.  I  would  not  have  known  her,  so 
little  of  her  was  there  left,  the  blue  veins  standing 
out  under  the  skin  of  her  shrunken  hands,  and  her 
face  not  at  all  that  of  the  'Thusia  I  had  known 
when  I  was  a  child.  I  talked  of  myself  and  of  my 
family  and  of  my  little  successes,  and  all  the  while 
I  felt  that  she  must  see  through  me,  and  that  she 
must  know  I  was  chattering  to  hide  the  pain  I  felt 
at  seeing  these  dear  friends  so  changed,  and  so 


300  DOMINIE    DEAN 

deep  in  poverty.  In  this  I  was  mistaken.  Her 
only  thought  was  gratitude  that  I  had  found  time 
to  come  to  them,  and  pleasure  to  know  all  was 
well  with  me. 

"  You  '11  come  when  you  come  to  Biverbank 
again, ' '  she  said  when  I  had  to  leave  her.  ' l  It  has 
done  me  so  much  good  to  see  you.  Now  go  down 
and  give  David  the  rest  of  your  visit. ' ' 

She  raised  her  hand  for  me  to  take  in  farewell. 

"God  has  been  very  good  to  us,"  she  said. 

When  I  went  down  Alice  had  brought  her  sew- 
ing to  the  porch,  and  had  carried  out  a  chair  for 
me — such  a  shabby  chair — and  Rose  Hinch  was 
there.  She  hurriedly  hid  a  paper  parcel  behind 
her  skirt  when  she  arose  to  greet  me,  but  it  toppled 
over  and  a  raw  potato  rolled  out.  I  pretended  to 
be  unaware  of  it.  I  knew  then  that  our  David 
still  had  one  friend,  and  guessed  who  reminded 
the  older  church  members  that  David  and  'Thusia 
might  some  days  go  hungry,  unless  they  received 
such  alms  as  were  given  to  the  very  poor. 

I  sat  for  an  hour,  talking  with  David  and  Rose 
and  Alice,  and  for  an  hour  tried  to  forget  that  this 
poverty  was  David's  reward  for  a  life  spent  in 
serving  God  and  his  people,  and  then  Rose  and  I 
left,  and  I  walked  over  the  hill  with  her.  We 
talked  of  David,  and  when  I  told  her  I  was  going 
to  see  Mack  Graham  she  said  she  would  go 
with  me. 

The  small  real  estate  office,  on  a  second  floor, 
was  not  as  shabby  as  I  had  expected,  nor  was 
Mack  Graham  as  shabby. 


"OUR   DAVID"  301 

"Big  family,  that's  all  the  matter  with  me,"  he 
told  me  cheerfully.  "I  want  you  to  come  up  to 
dinner  if  you  can  and  meet  my  brood.  So  you've 
been  up  to  see  our  David?  How  is  he  to-day?" 

"Mack,"  I  said,  "can't  something  be  done? 
Can't  someone  here  start  something?  I  know 
how  a  place  gets  in  a  rut — how  we  forget  the 
things  we  have  with  us  day  by  day.  If  you  could 
go  away,  as  I  went,  and  come  back  to  see  our 
David  as  he  is  now,  poor,  discarded,  neglected — " 

"Rose,  what  do  you  mean,  neglecting  our 
David?"  Mack  asked,  almost  gayly. 

Rose  smiled  sadly. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  Mack  said,  reaching  for  an 
envelope  on  his  desk.  "Our  church  is  changed. 
Most  of  the  old  people  are  gone  now.  I  felt  the 
way  you  did  about  it — it  was  a  pity  our  David 
wasn't  a  horse  instead  of  a  man;  then  we  could 
have  shot  him  when  we  had  worn  him  out  and 
were  through  with  him.  Folks  forget  things,  don't 
they?  Well—" 

He  drew  a  letter  from  the  envelope  and  passed 
it  to  me. 

When  I  had  read  the  letter  I  was  not  quite  as 
ashamed  of  my  kind  as  I  had  been  a  moment  be- 
fore. The  letter  did  not  promise  much.  It  seemed 
there  was  not  a  great  deal  of  money  available  and 
the  calls  were  many,  but,  after  all,  there  was  a 
Fund  and  it  could  spare  something  for  David,  as 
much,  perhaps,  as  a  child  could  earn  picking  ber- 
ries in  a  season  each  year.  But  it  would  mean  all 
the  difference  between  penury  and  dread  of  the 


302  DOMINIE   DEAN 

poorhoiise  on  the  one  hand  and  safety  on  the 
other  to  David.  I  thought  how  glad  David  would 
be  and  how  grateful.  I  handed  the  letter  to  Eose 
Hinch. 

She  read  it  in  silence  and  when  she  looked  up 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  so  glad— for  'Thusia,"  she  said.  "She 
has  worried  so  for  fear  David  might  have  to  go  to 
the  poorhouse — alone!  She  has  been  afraid  to 
die ;  David  would  have  been  so  lonely  in  the  poor- 
house." 

'  *  Well,  it  is  great  anyway!"  said  Mack  more 
noisily  than  necessary.  "So  come  up  to  the  house 
to  dinner.  You,  too,  Eose.  We  '11  give  our  dominie 
the  letter.  We'll  have  him  come  to  dinner,  too, 
and  Alice,  and  we'll  celebrate — " 

Eose  smiled,  as  she  used  to  smile  in  the  days 
when  I  first  knew  her. 

"No,  Mack,"  she  said.  "We  will  give  him  the 
letter  when  he  has  put  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  is 
going  home.  He  will  want  'Thusia  to  be  the  first 
to  be  glad  with  him." 

So  that  was  how  it  was  done. 


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